Simon Says: HELP ME!
by The General G of K
Summary: When a strange foreigner crashes a party, and provides a letter proving that Suze's supposed dead father is, in fact, alive, Suze and the 'gang' embark on a journey that spells 'Danger' from the very beginning.
1. Prologue: July 1989

**July, 1989**

**South America**

**Somewhere in the Amazon**

_A few more steps. That's all it will take. You have to get this letter to the chief._

With another sharp, wheezy inhale, Govinda made his way steadily forward, lugging his left foot behind him. If his tribe had been influenced by Western culture, he would have said that he looked like Frankenstein with that limp.

However, the young man was neither influenced by Western culture, nor was he really in a situation in which the connection would have been amusing. In fact, the only hopeful thought in his mind was that the faint outline of the familiar huts of his people was not far off in the distance.

The cawing of the birds overhead and the buzzing of the numerous insects below was doing nothing for his condition whatsoever. If anything, it was making him jumpy and, probably, making his condition worse.

_Pace yourself. You have no time for fear. You are Govinda, well respected warrior of the Waorani. You must keep moving forward._

With a determined glare in his beetle black eyes, and the will power in his heart to stay strong, Govinda continued limping towards the camp. The closer he trudged toward the camp, the harder it was to continue on. Govinda could feel his chest tightening in such a way that it burned fiercely.

_I should have been more alert, _he thought to himself, clutching at his left breast as if he wanted to rip his heart out of its cavity. The pain was excruciating. But he was Waoranian warrior. More pain equaled more endurance.

As his path began to sway left and right, he figured it would be wise to rest, if only for a nanosecond. He made his way towards a tree with a sturdy looking trunk, and leaned against it. _A bálsamo, _he thought to himself. It was only then that he caught another glance at his left foot.

The point where the Coral snake's fangs came in contact with his skin was blood red. A deep contrast compared to his dark skin. The sight of the puncture wound made Govinda queasy, constricting his airways even more than they were seconds ago.

As he continued his agonizing trek to the village, he mentally chastised himself. The Coral snake was well known for its bright coral colored skin. Against the sopping wet greens of the ground floor, any idiot could have seen it coming. But Govinda didn't. And as he'd been told all his life, his ignorance had caused him his life.

The young man had been sent away to hunt Jaguars since the tribe was storing food away, so they would be prepared when the rainy season arrived. There were only ever two seasons in the Amazon. The rainy season and the dry season. Govinda trekked out into the heart of the jungle and finally spotted the Jaguar that would be his kill. It was a proud being; a warrior. Just like Govinda. But Govinda knew that in this duel, he must come out the victor.

It was while he was planning his plan of attack when the snake bit him. Apparently, he had been lying on top of the snake's nest, and the snake did not like this arrangement at all. Just like Govinda had planned to remove the Jaguar, the snake had planned to remove Govinda.

_And he was successful,_ Govinda thought as he continued to slowly make his way to the opening of their settlement. Each step was becoming more unbearable, but somehow Govinda knew his fate when the snake first bit him. He had been well instructed by his fellow tribe members, and when the snake bit him, he had caught a look at its fangs. They were fixed which meant that its venom was neurotoxic and would attack his nervous system causing the failure to breathe.

Govi's head felt heavy and his vision blurred. His steps seemed to swerve back and forth violently, until he finally collapsed at the mouth of the camp.

Before survival instinct occurred to him, Govinda thought about Kali, his bride to be. They were to be married by the next full moon. Kali was a beautiful woman, and a lot of other warriors in the camp had sought her out. But it was Govinda who won her father over, and ever since then, the two of them couldn't keep their eyes off each other. Whenever he would pass her during the middle of her daily activities, if he caught her eye, he would smile shyly, and she would return the gesture. They were in love in the worst way. _But now,_ Govinda thought, as he planned his next move of action, _her love goes unrequited._

Hand still on his constrictive chest, Govinda let loose a cry of the warrior. It was a word in their native tongue, but it was loud enough that it would catch the attention of the tribe near by. At least he hoped it did. That belt of angst had been his last bit of energy.

Many of the tribesmen did come running to see who it was that was in so much pain. His eyes began to flutter shut, but using up what strength he could, Govinda tried not to shut them. _You mustn't sleep. You have a job to do._

Hands cupped his head, and he felt it being lifted onto someone's lap.

Kali.

Kali looked down at her husband to be. While he was never a very muscular man (he was more of the small and nimble type), Kali knew that he had a full form. Or at least he used to have an average form. Looking down at him now, his chest was caved in, literally creating a valley on his poor body.

"Govinda, what happened to you?" she asked frantically to her dying husband to be, in their native tongue. She wiped a hand across his sweaty brow, and at the notice of his eyes fluttering, she called to the gawking onlookers, "Get the chief. Quickly!"

"There is—" Govinda wheezed out. He attempted to clear his throat, and start over. Before he did, he looked Kali in the eyes, envisioning her life without him in it. "—There is no time to explain. Take this—" he coughed and gasped for more air. Kali sat him up, and he continued. "—Take this paper to the chief. It is very important that you do. It concerns Peter Simon."

And it was at that moment that Govinda took his last strained breath, and died in the arms of his love, wishing nothing more than he had not let ignorance get the better of him.


	2. An Uninvited Guest

**July, Present Day **

**New York City**

**Susannah Simon Inc. Warehouse**

"I need the Spring sketches on my desk no later than tomorrow. If I don't get them into the seamstress by then, these clothes'll never be showcased on the runway, understand? Besides, I've heard Giselle has seen the prints and is very interested in working for us."

I stared down at my feet which I had propped up onto my desk. They were clad in a black, Mary-Jane pump designed by me! If you would take the shoe off, and examine the label, the name "Susannah Simon" would grace your eyes. They were Suze Shoes, as I like to call them.

Two years after I graduated from NYU, my taste for fashion design was finally discovered by someone pretty respected in the fashion world. Thanks to him, I started working for various designers like Jimmy Choo and Louis Vuitton until about eleven years ago. It was then that I was finally doing independent work and had my own line. At this point in my career, we were even shipping orders to Japan as well as Italy.

It just seemed so surreal to me. This was like a dream come true. I was living the Good life; the one actresses and musicians always go on about. And the best part of it was I would never have to walk into a mall ever again because I could just design an outfit, and after it was sewn together, it would just be shipped right to my apartment.

Since I was eighteen, I've been living in New York. I loved the constant rush, the buildings, the nightlife; everything about the city. Growing up, I lived in a suburb very close to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania with my parents. I was an only child until my dad—uh, never mind. I mean, my mom moved me out to Carmel, California to marry this construction worker/cook with three sons. That happened when I was sixteen. Then graduation came and for some reason, I chose to go to a college on the other side of the continental U.S. which leads me to my dream life in New York.

And ghosts? Hadn't been a problem in years.

"I've seen the progress on the sketches, and I'll work on them some more when you're gone," Naomi informed me, glancing down at the notes on her clipboard. She then bit on the end of her pen and asked, "Tell me again why you're leaving early again?"

"It's Vince," I said dryly, smoothing my black, knee length dress down. With my hair piled on my head and a pearl choker around my neck, I was the fashion symbol of chic. Then again, I _was_ Susannah Simon. I plucked a pen out from one of the holders and jotted a note to myself down on a Post-it. "His college reunion is tonight, and he insists on dragging me to Philly with him. And if that's not bad enough, he's making me stay down there a week with him."

Naomi laughed and plopped herself down into one of the over-stuffed leather chairs in front of my desk. "Maybe he's asking you to come with him because you are his wife."

I smiled, "I've taken that into consideration, but if we follow fact through to conclusion, it is because he is a psycho."

Naomi rolled her eyes, "Right. Do you usually eye rape mentally unstable people?"

I tapped my pen on my chin and remarked, "Well, you have to admit there's just _something_ about Charles Manson, in the way he—"

"You can't stay that week," Naomi interrupted, pushing a random strand of red hair out of her eyes. "You've got that meeting with Betsey Johnson on Thursday."

"Oh, that's right," I admitted, slamming a fist on the desk. What should I do? "Well, just tell Betsey I'm going to have to reschedule our meeting. She'll understand. She's a doll with stuff like that."

I ripped a new sheet of paper out of a random notebook and began compiling a list of things I would need to pack for this ghastly trip to Philadelphia. Were eight pairs of shoes too much or not enough?

"But I thought you didn't want to go to Philly," Naomi pondered in a state of confusion.

"I don't," I admitted, "but I've dragged him to some of my fashion shows, and he hates them. Besides, he would be furious and have his way with me angrily if I would skip . . . doesn't sound that bad actually."

Naomi cringed and then blurted, "Eww. My virgin ears, please! Unfortunately, not all of us are having great sex with excessively good looking, well respected scientist type Texans."

I laughed and leaned back in my chair. "Yeah. But I am." When I saw her roll her eyes, I added, "And great is not the word. It's more like phenomenal."

Naomi stood up and said, "Simon, I am leaving in, like, five if you don't stop."

"Okay. Fine. No more talk of Suzie sexcapades. Let's move onto things like . . . Naomi sexcapades. How are things with that Eddie guy?" I asked repositioning my feet and adding more things to my list. With a group of geniuses, was it better to go with halter tops, or vintage? Or perhaps a vintage halter top?

(A/N: A bug just crawled on my boob! Eww. Nice to know that the insects can't resist my voluptuous body.)

Naomi actually blushed (!) and said awkwardly, "Um, we haven't exactly done that yet." Aw, she really cared about this guy. "I think he might be the one."

I squealed as if I were some pathetic fifteen year old from Pennsylvania excited about a bunch of comedy CD's she ordered. "Really?"

Naomi shifted in her leather seat and added quickly, "I know it sounds hopelessly romantic of me, and—and I know it's only been a couple of dates, but he's just not like other guys which is actually why I came up here. I wanted to know how this dress looks on me. He's asked me to this comedy club tonight to go see some guy, Dane Cook. Do you know him?" I shook my head, and she continued, "Anyway, since I'm not into comedy like he is, I figured I'd impress him with my fashion sense, so what do you think?"

"Stand and twirl around a couple times," I advised, and because she was as far away from my desk as she was, I pushed my black, thick framed glasses up the bridge of my nose. That's what happens when you get older. Everything sags, and everything that doesn't sag doesn't function correctly, like eyes for instance.

Naomi did as I asked, and I evaluated the dress. It had that tropical theme which was a bit much for July. It was also white and sea green only. It tied around the neck, and the majority of her black was exposed. If it were any other redhead asking me (sea green and red, BLECH!), I would have said no. But Naomi just had that something about her that made the outfit work perfectly.

"I think I'm jealous of this Eddie guy," I said laughing.

Nomi beamed and sort of jumped up and down childishly. I allowed it because she was in love. However, she abruptly stopped when someone else entered the room.

"Eddie who?"

I pulled my feet off my desk, and stood up, walking around to the front of my desk. I leaned my butt against the desk and explained to my dark, brooding Texan, "Eddie Rosenberg. He asked Naomi out to some comedy club tonight."

"Oh, good," Vince said in his deep, Texan drawl I had come to know and love, walking towards the two of us. "I thought maybe he was someone I should be concerned with." I giggled sadly, and Naomi and I both gave our greetings to him. He returned our gestures and then asked, "Who are you going to see tonight, Naomi?"

"Some guy named Dane Cook," she answered, looking down at her nails, checking for imperfections. Dragging her gaze back at Vince, she asked, "Do you know of him?"

Vince laughed and tugged at the tie strangling his neck, "Yes, ma'am, I do. He's hysterical. You'll have a good time."

Naomi crinkled her nose and looked at him in a funny way. "Ma'am? That's so . . . formal. What is that? A southern thing?"

Vince just smiled and said, "I like to think of it as a manners thing, actually."

He made his way over to my coat stand and lifted my trench off its hook. "You ready to go then?" he asked me, holding the coat on an extended arm.

I plucked it from his grasp and situated myself in it. Glancing at my desk once more to check for things I'd need, I grabbed my list of things to pack, folded it, and put it in my briefcase.

"Ready," I breathed out gustily. I was such a workaholic, it was kind of nerve racking taking a vacation. There was so much to be done still. Speaking of which, "Have those spring collection sketches sent to the seamstress. Don't forget. I'm counting on you."

Naomi rolled here eyes, and sassily placed her hands on her hip, "Simon, GO. I've got this covered."

"Okay, okay," I uttered, lifting my hands in retreat. "Have fun then tonight."

Vince placed a hand on the small of my back and began forcing me towards the exit of my office. Jerk. "Uh-huh, Suze, that's great. Now we have a plane to catch—" In, like, twelve HOURS. "—remember? Naomi," he stopped long enough to shake her hand, "as always, a pleasure. Remember; speak up in the drive-thru line at Burger King." At the look on Naomi's confused face, he added, "You'll get what I mean after tonight. Have fun."

After our goodbyes, and when Vince and I were both in the elevator, I asked him, "Hey, Vince, were you really jealous of that Eddie guy for just that tiny second?"

He looked down at me and smirked, shaking his head. "Hardly," he said in an arrogant way. "I know you'll never wander. You dig me, darlin'. Why would you wander to linen when you've already got silk right here?"

"You cocky bastard," I said, not really meaning it. Please! Before me stood my soul mate in snakeskin cowboy boots, and a black cowboy hat. And, of course, a suit. He wasn't THAT sure of himself.

He gave me one of his half-smiles and said, "That's why you love me, darlin'."

**+SS+**

"There is NO way you are taking five suitcases, Suze!"

"But I need all that stuff," I argued, packing yet another suitcase. What can I say? Somewhere along the line I decided eight pairs of shoes were NOT enough. And besides, what if you weren't in the mood for preppy attire at one point in time and wanted to go with rocker glam instead? I was being resourceful and thinking ahead. Vince should be thanking me. 'Should' being the emphasized word.

"If you don't unpack those bags yourself," Vince growled from the bathroom, "I'll do it myself. And the outcome won't be pretty."

Before I could protest, he poked his head out from behind the frame of the door. "How many pair of shoes did you pack?" he asked, dripping water on the tile of the bathroom and the carpet of the bedroom. He had just showered.

"Twenty-two," I replied, not looking at Vince.

This was a good thing because he blew a fuse.

"TWENTY—WE ARE STAYING FOR A WEEK, SUSANNAH!" he roared, emerging from the bathroom, clad only in a blue towel wrapped around his waist haphazardly. His black hair sopping wet; his dark blue eyes aflame. Apparently, I caught him while he was shaving because his face was slathered with shaving cream. Well, he finished shaving some of it, so only half his face was covered with the stuff. I've been rendered speechless. "At the most, you should have SEVEN! NOT TWENTY-TWO!"

"I am an internationally recognized fashion icon!" I yelled in argument, which was kind of funny considering at the moment, I was clad in a pair of oversized track pants (original owner: Vince) and an NYU alumni tee. Plus, my hair was in a sloppy ponytail. "Just because we are going to bohunk Philly, PA does NOT mean I should let my guard down!"

I had to suppress the urge to giggle when Vince stepped towards me angrily. The shaving cream was just too much. Well, the towel only was too much as well, but in a different way.

"What the hell else did you pack?" he asked, glancing over me and into the suitcase I was currently filling. Whatever he saw didn't exactly make his mood any better. "What exactly do you need a bikini for?" he asked, dangling it from his index finger.

"In case—" I said, trying to grab it from him, but failing because he kept moving it out of my reach, "—there's a pool at our hotel, or in case some weird scenario—I don't know, Vince. Just give it back."

He seemed to find this amusing. More amusing than I found his attire. Amusing and unnerving. "What could possibly happen? Our plane crashes, and we land in the Caribbean? You don't need this." And with that, he chucked the suit over his shoulders. "Now, what the hell is this?"

He picked up a tube top. Hey, in my experience weather is as unpredictable as people.

"I—"

"Pennsylvania doesn't get nearly this hot. Don't need it," he interrupted me and added the tube top to the pile he started behind him. When he noticed the next article of clothing, he smirked, and raised an eyebrow.

"What do we have here?" Dangling from his hand was a lacy, pink thong. Don't get the wrong idea. I don't wear them, personally, I'd rather get up close and personal with a porcupine before I subject myself to a string up my ass, but I do design them. They're big nowadays. Somehow, this one must have gotten in with my other clothes.

Smirk still playing on his lips, he said, "I didn't know you wore this type of thing. Kind of kinky. What do they call them in the business? Sling shots?"

My face blushed crimson, and I grabbed at it, but Vince held it out of my reach again. "That is NOT mine," I assured him.

"Are you suggesting that it's mine?" he asked, examining it.

"No, I'm suggesting you're an asshole," I spat at him.

He laughed and blew a kiss my way. "One suitcase, darlin'. And bring sneakers. You'll wear your ankles out."

"Five," I argued, still holding my ground.

"One," he insisted, not relenting.

Realizing I had no shot, I decreased. "Four."

"Three."

"Two."

"Alright then," he half-smiled, reentering the bathroom. "Agreeable."

Damn! How stupid am I?

"Hey!—"

"I want you packed before I get back in there."

"Don't talk to me."

"What was that? I can't hear you over the sound of victory. The trumpets are too loud."

"I've seen rolls of quarters longer than your dick!"

"UNCALLED FOR, Suze!"

**+SS+**

Having finished packing (I _just_ managed to stuff the essentials into the two suitcases), I had grabbed sustenance in the form of a JELL-O pudding cup (chocolate), and was now sitting on the island counter in our kitchen watching something on the National Geographic channel. It wasn't really anything I was interested in, but I was watching it anyway. Something having to do with the Amazon rainforest was on.

"There are over fifty million invertebrates living in the Amazon today," the narrator, Neil explained, in one of those accents which you weren't sure if it was cockney or Australian or possibly some weird accent I've never heard of. Why couldn't they find a nice Scottish man to read it? Or, gee, I don't know—AN AMERICAN. The narrator continued, "One scientist even found fifty different species of ants on a single tree in Peru. The scientist is the late, world renowned biologist, Dr. Peter Simon, whose last piece—"

"—happened? Why did the shark attack you? Were you taunting it?' Yeah, I go into the sea sometimes just to fuck around with the sharks. I have this thing called a Shark Rocket, and I shoot it at them. And it really annoys them. And then I just wade there in the water, and they come at me, but I'm really good at eluding them. I know of this hip move. It's something porpoises do, and then I pretend I have a bottleneck, and then I stab them in the gills. And it really—"

"Hey, turn that other thing back on. That was interesting," Vince whined, entering the kitchen. He had changed into a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a red t-shirt. His hair was mostly dry, and it looked as if he had trimmed his sideburns. But what did I care if he was looking scrumtrilescent at the moment? I was still a little moody about my suitcase epidemic.

I glared at him stonily, but didn't do as he asked. Instead, I took another spoonful of pudding into my mouth, and asked, "This wouldn't happen to be that Dane Cook guy, would it?"

Vince didn't even have to look at the TV screen. If there was one thing he knew other than biology, it was stand up comedy. Sad when you look at it. "Yeah," he finally said, heaving himself on the counter right next to me. I scooted over and took another spoonful of pudding into my mouth. So good, yet so fattening.

Dane went on about the old Kool-Aid commercials for a bit when Vince finally said, "Hey, Suze, you got some pudding on your face there."

Instinctively, I wiped my chin, and asked, "Where?"

"It's right about near your mouth," he explained, leaning in closer. "Here, let me get it for you."

Now, when you hear that, you would probably think that the person would grab a napkin and remove the offensive food from your face. This would be normal and socially acceptable.

However, Vince is neither since, of course, he promptly went about removing the pudding from my mouth by sort of kissing the outer region of my mouth and using some fancy tongue work to remove it.

"Y-You could have used a napkin, you know," I stuttered. God, just that little point of contact had me shaken up and nervous. You would think after six years of marriage I'd be over that stage in my life, but nope. I am pathetic.

"I know," he said, not intentionally trying to rattle my nerves with his stomach muscles practically popping out of his shirt, I'm sure. He grazed my cheek with the back of his hand. "But somehow things are so much more fun when you use your mouth."

Instantly, the thought of doing everyday things with your mouth, or playing sports with your mouth came popping into my head, but I figured this wasn't exactly the time to mention it.

I stared at his face for a moment, taking in his gorgeous eyes which were roughly navy-blue, his large, masculine, bumpy nose, and his cleft chin which I would sometimes nibble at during some of our questionable foreplay rounds.

But you didn't need to know that.

It wasn't two seconds later when I pulled Vince's face towards me and began kissing him, showing no pride whatsoever. Not that it mattered since my renewed interest in kissing had Vince in a good mood, hence him pressing me back into the countertop. I ran my fingers through his newly washed hair and noticed the contrast of dark on ghostly pale. A minute or two passed, and Vince pulled away, staring at me with a smile playing on his lips.

"You know," he began, I noticed, supporting himself on one elbow, the other arm was resting its hand on my breast. While usually extremely sensual, this was just sort of awkward since we were just talking now, unfortunately. Imagine if everyone just rested their hand on each other's breasts when they talked to each other. Would that be acceptable? I didn't mind it so much anymore when he began lazily making circles on said chesticle. Oooh, this was kinky countertop foreplay! Must ignore feelings of sudden arousal. He continued, "Your dad would kill me if he knew what I was thinking now."

I laughed sophisticatedly (i.e. chortling), and ran my fingers through his hair again. Removing his hand from my chest, he grabbed my hand I had just run through his hair and kissed the palm of it. "Yeah, right," I said sarcastically, ignoring the pit I felt in my stomach. Why did he have to bring up my dad now? We were just about to get into countertop sex. Unexplored territory, people. "My dad wouldn't notice, let alone care. My dad was so involved with his thing; he didn't even notice that he had a daughter."

Vince abruptly sat up, and looked at me as if I had insulted him and not my dead father. "Don't say that, Suze!" he said, looking thoroughly insulted. And I guess it _was_ pretty harsh since the two of them were good friends before he died, but how could I love someone that was barely there for me? "Your father was a good man. He loved you more than anything in the world."

I snorted in disbelief. Were we talking about the same Dr. Peter Lawrence Simon here? Internationally respected biologist, never show up at home, Dr. Peter Simon? Had a building at Drexel University named after him, as well as a science program for upcoming nerdy biologists? Somehow, I had the feeling we were.

"Bullshit. The only thing my father loved was science, you, Paul, and Jesse. That's it," I said sharply, pointing my gaze at his. "He loved you three and his career more than he did my mom and me. Do you know how lonely it was for my mother? Do you know how lonely it was for ME? How would you feel if the day your father found out that you weren't into his hobby, excuse me, his LIFE, he disowned you entirely? It was a lonely way to grow up. For my mom and me. My dad too."

Vince's eyes were aflame once again, and he looked like he ate something gross. "Actually," he stated angrily to me, "in case you've forgotten, Suze, I do know what it was like for me. Only, consider yourself lucky that your father's 'disownment' was on something as trivial as biology. Just to remind you, my father disowned my mom and I when he found out I was in existence. Try going to sleep at night when you're growing up knowing that the reason your mom is crying every other night; praying to God to give her a helping hand for all the things that she couldn't do, is partly because of you."

I subdued a gasp and looked into Vince's eyes with sympathy. It had evaded my mind that before Vince had been the cute, geeky, science nerd that would be over at my house all the time, talking with my dad, he had moved to Pennsylvania from San Antonio with his mom. Ms. Luxmoore was an awesome, but poor lady. My family would have her and Vince over many times for dinner or other times.

I guess I should explain pre-New York. It might make a little more sense.

My father, Peter Simon, had an obsession with outdoor life throughout his entire life. He was one of those kids that if he would ever find a bug in the house, instead of squishing it like a normal person, he would acquire a new pet. This is something I will probably never understand because Vince does it too, only, he never keeps them as pets. He just releases them out through the window. Anyway, somewhere along Dad's troubled life, he was able to ensnare my mother into his 'charming' death trap. The two ended up tying the knot and sometime later had me.

Since the day I could talk, my dad tried to shove animals of all types in my way. I wouldn't have a part of it. At the time, I was more interested in ballerinas, Barbie and Ken's long lasting relationship, and building metropolises out of LEGOS. No way was I going to sacrifice my terror reign on Legoville to watch birds hang out in their natural habitats. Who in their right mind WOULD want to do that stuff?

Well, a group of six year olds apparently would have sacrificed their terror reign. Just a year before I was born, the three guys met my dad, and the four of them would discuss fauna, flora, The Beatles, take nature walks, et cetera. As weird as this might seem, it wasn't anything as gross as you might think. The sixties were a different time. People thought gay was a feeling you have when you have a smile upon your face. The Beatles were drug free.

The three guys were as in love with the outdoors as my father was. It was like Dad had adopted three sons and had abandoned his wife and child. The kids were the social outcasts in school, and they joined forces to become one super nerd. Vince Luxmoore was one of the kids in the group. Like I said before, he moved from San Antonio, so growing up, he was an outcast due to his southern twang which he never lost (thankfully). He was cute enough, but I never liked him at all. Too dorky for me. I was going to marry a football player, or so I thought. I found out later in life that geeky guys were the way to go.

Hector "Jesse" de Silva was the next kid. He insisted we call him Jesse because; yeah, just imagine your name was Hector. Anyway, super nerd, just like his predecessor, Vince, Jesse had a hard time because he mostly spoke Spanish. Plus, he had the worst of luck with dogs. A scar on his eyebrow was the proof. The only other thing Jesse was interested in was medicine. I think he has a double major in biology and medicine now. I'm not sure.

The final kid in the group was Paul Slater. While he loved the outdoors as much as his compatriots, he was seemingly the most normal. I say seemingly because Paul Slater had a dark secret that would keep him from EVER being classified as normal. He was popular, captain of the tennis team, academic scholar, hot as hell. I mean, the list went on and on. And, sure, it was well known that I had a crush on the kid, but I never voiced it. If I would have, I'd have been mocked ceaselessly by both him and his friends. We were six years apart after all. Anyway, despite Paul's seemingly perfectly normal physique, he was given the gift that I, as well, had been cursed with. Paul was a shifter. We both figured out each other's powers when I came across one of my first ghosts. I'm aware of all my shifter powers and senses thanks to him. He took the time to tutor me in the ways of the paranormal. We've never leaked the secret that we are what we are to anyone.

Basically, I grew up with these three boys. They were like an extension on our quaint, little family. Sometimes I liked the boys around. More than likely, I did not like them around especially when I found Legoville had been destroyed by giant human feet.

We didn't stay kids forever (thank God). In 1982, I turned thirteen, and the boys were entering their sophomore year at Drexel University, the school my dad worked at since about his mid thirties. He was home even less of the time due to all the studying abroad he did with his classes, and, of course, Vince, Jesse, and Paul.

The government had been following my father's success in that creepy, stalkerish way they do. Apparently, they got wind of some sort of plant that could be the answer to ending the AIDS crisis, which resided in the Amazon rainforest. They needed a well-trained scientist who knew the land, animals, and would recognize the plant immediately. So who better to recruit than the world renowned scientist, Peter Simon?

The last time I ever heard from my dad again was in June of 1983. He was calling from Porto Velho, Brazil to let us know that he had arrived safely.

Two days after, the government lost track of where he was. They sent troops to scout the designated area out, but no sign of my dad. Things went on in this vain for a couple weeks. After a couple months, he was declared missing. And after a year, he was reported dead.

The president, hearing of the news, made sure the entire event was covered up. No story appeared on the news, no articles were written. All of Peter Simon's files were erased, making the world believe he never existed. The president gave my mom a lousy phone call and told her he was sorry for her loss. I guess he totally forgot that there was a little girl who was fatherless now because of his selfish idea to find some dumb plant.

My mom cried for what seemed like eight years, maybe it was that long, I wouldn't know. I became anti-government, and anti-science. I became empty and angry that God, who was so righteous, would take away my father AND give me the gift of shifting. Jesse, Paul, and Vince took it the hardest, I think, well, other than my mom. The three went off on their own separate ways after the private funeral the president had for family and friends only. They would come around occasionally to see how my mom and I were doing because they knew my dad would have liked it that way, but they didn't talk much to each other anymore. I remember I didn't cry a single tear because I was so angry at God and at America.

Two years later, my mom met this guy Andy Ackerman, whom she was fully in love with, and dragged me across the continent to Carmel, California.

So that's basically what happened. Four brilliant minds; one dead, the other three cut off communications from each other. I moved to New York, and that brings us to here.

Sometimes when I'm down and out, my mind will drift back to my father. I wonder if he really was dead, why I hadn't seen him come back as a ghost. Then I chastise myself saying that it's been twenty-two years since you last heard from him, and that the reason he hasn't come back as a ghost is because he left nothing behind.

Like I've said, I don't really like to talk about it.

"Vince," I said, looking down at my legs, feeling like the lowest piece of dirt in the entire world, "I'm sorry."

He breathed out heavily, and said to me, grasping my chin between his thumb and index finger forcing me to look at him, "I know, darlin'. You just weren't thinkin'."

"No," I debated, brushing some hair out of his eyes, cupping his face in my hand, "I was definitely thinking. But I was being selfish, impertinent, immature, insensitive—"

"—an ass—"

"—an ass—Hey!" I protested. "I think we get the picture. No need for your inclusion."

I got off the countertop and wrapped my hands around his neck, urging his hands to take a hold of my hips, which they did. He lowered his lips to mine and kissed me tenderly before pulling away and just staring. I guess you could say we were having a moment.

"I love you, Vincent Luxmoore," I said, moving my hands from the back of his neck to his chest. It was every bit as dreamy as it looked. Possibly more so now that I was grazing my hands along the contours and ridges, but it was like a fun bounce for women, minus the bounce.

Vince rolled his eyes and grasped both of my hands into his, backing me up against the wall under the TV. Better hope that thing is screwed in tightly. "Now I know you're just sucking up, Susannah Luxmoore."

"Susannah Simon," I corrected him. I had never taken his name because I married him after I had business in full swing. You can't go from Suze Simon to Suze Luxmoore when everyone knows you as Suze Simon. It was just too complicated.

I felt his lower body press into mine as he restrained my arms by holding them above my head and pressing them against the wall. "Same difference," he slurred, his face inches from mine, and his Texan drawl even more evident than usual. Smirking, he planted a kiss on my collarbone and added, "If you're trying to seduce me into having sex with you . . . I gotta say: whatever the hell you're doin' is working."

Pressed up against the wall, I giggled, and said, "If I had wanted to have sex with you, we would have done it on the countertop. I'm trying to go for new places."

"So where will it be this evening then, ma'am?" he asked, moving his illicit kisses from my collarbone to my pulse point. "The bed is obviously not a choice, the dining room table, well, you know what went down there, or rather who."

"Shut up," I squirmed, biting at his ear which was really the only thing I could reach for at the moment seeing as how my hands were out of use. I wasn't trying to be kinky, I swear.

Vince growled, and then covered my mouth with his once again, so I wouldn't try that stint again. In between kisses, he breathed out, "We did it four times on the couch, once on the kitchen floor, two times on the stairs, oh, and—"

"Vince!" I shouted, trying to release my arms, succeeding, and then slapping him on the back. "Shut it. There will be no sex. I need a shower, and we have a plane to catch in . . . three hours now. Now get off me."

He released me, and followed me into the bathroom saying, "The shower it is then."

**+SS+**

Needless to say, my shower was longer than expected.

And right on the money: this reunion was as thrilling as watching Ben Affleck act.

Vince had assured me that I would be fine, that if I just blend in with the crowd, I should have a swell time. How you blend in with men who have never been interested with reality TV or _Friends_ is beyond me. I mean, I know there were females here as well, but they all seemed to look down on me because I was either better looking than them, or I was wearing maroon. I couldn't decide which choice ruled out.

I stood there, leaning against the refreshments table, and stared gloomily at the "WELCOME BACK, CLASS OF '86! UP TO YOUR SAME OLD TRICKS AGAIN!" which hung right above the double doors entering the country club. I took another gulp of the wine I had in my hand. I figured it would be a lot easier to deal with people smarter than me if I were unconscious.

I grabbed a fork off the table and was just about to take a plate too, when I had an idea. Leaning my head back, I placed the fork on the tip of my nose, trying to see if I could balance it without having to use my hands. My only defense for myself is the wine. Or possibly my sheer boredom.

"That's clever. You're using your two greatest attributes. Your skill and your beauty."

Immediately, I grabbed the fork off my nose and spun around. "Why don't you go f—Paul?"

"Suze."

I shook my head and did a double take. How could he be so nonchalant about the situation? Before me stood Paul Slater. Only, he wasn't six years old anymore. He was a full grown man with a goatee and a tuxedo.

(A/N: Goatee disclaimed to great authors of Flashlight)

"God, how're you doing, Slater? Is Jesse around here too?" I asked him, bringing him into a polite hug, as if I were in a trance. Since when had he become FINE? And why in God's name was I hugging him?

"I've been good, Suze. Jesse couldn't make it. He's doing some medical related thing down at the hospital," he said, bringing me closer to him than was actually polite. I pulled away almost instantaneously and pulled a stray piece of hair that had become attached to my lip-gloss. Paul tugged at his bow tie a bit and then asked with a smile, "So how are things with Suze Simon, or I guess I should say, Suze Luxmoore."

I scratched at my neck, and as much as I don't like to admit it, I assured Paul he was right. "Uh, no. Actually I'm still Susannah Simon. The, uh, empire and everything I have couldn't change my name. It'd be too weird."

Paul raised an eyebrow, and grabbed a roll from one of the baskets. A smirk was playing at his lips, and, figuratively speaking, he looked as if he were a cheetah waiting to pounce on a lone mouse or something. "Ah, so you're still my little Suzie Simon?"

I snorted, and took another gulp of my wine. I'm sure you're not supposed to take gulps of alcohol, but I wasn't following rules this evening. I figured Paul Slater worked in the same way as the reunion did. If I was intoxicated, he'd be easier to deal with. Maybe I needed some whiskey too.

"Hardly, Paul," I said, rolling my eyes, and taking a glance around the room. Vince had made his speech earlier in the evening, so he had to come back sometime. Probably off canoodling with all the ladies that wish they would have given him the time of day, but didn't. Life was a beautiful thing sometimes. Despite the gift of mediation I had been given, I had been blessed with 6'5" of unadulterated (well . . . to an extent), masculine hotness with an accent. I don't really think things can get better than that.

"You never had a chance," I assured him, deciding to "work the room". I would treat this like any of the other parties I've been to. Except, instead of other models, designers, etc., this room was filled with Trekkies, virgins, and mutants. This wouldn't be difficult at all.

"Don't be so sure," Paul said, taking two gargantuan strides so he was next to me again. He made it so our arms were linked as he unofficially invited himself on my jaunt to the other side of the room. "There was a time when I did have a chance."

The buzz of people chatting, people laughing, glasses clinking, and feet shuffling penetrated my ears making speech a little less audible, but I had heard Paul Slater's words flawlessly. "Incidentally, Slater, the time you had a chance coincides perfectly with the time I was not my smartest."

Paul laughed and looked down on me. Why was it my entire life everyone has been looking down on me? Even the post guy looks down on me. This could be because of everyone's significant height difference, but come on. I think we have something that's not being looked over. Some issues that are not being brought into the light. "Suzie-Q, is that the way you're going to treat the guy who taught you everything you know? The guy who gave you one of the best years of your life?"

"It was fourteen months," I corrected him, begrudgingly. "And you didn't teach me everything. I have New York University to thank for that, my high school, and my parents, Paul."

"I was speaking more along the lines of paranormal activity," Paul said quietly. So quietly, in fact, that I had to lean in to hear him. Thinking back on it, this was probably his plan all along. "But now that you mention it, what went wrong with our relationship?" he asked, fiddling with his bow tie again. "Mighta been better if we slept together, I guess."

I glared at him, recognizing the stupid song he was referring to. Personally, I didn't find it funny. Personally, I wanted him to release my arm, so I could leave and go dance with my husband. Personally, I was a little hurt. "We did sleep together, you jackass," I hissed. Then, just to make sure he didn't get any ideas that I had liked it or anything which was beside the point, I assured him, "Something that will never happen again."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," he suggested, smiling. At this point, I totally yanked away from him. Please. As if I would sleep with him again. I have morals. I'm married. And I'm happy.

Although, he did do that thing where he would lick—

"You'll come back for more," Paul assured me, taking his full stance position again. "You know what they say, once you've gone Slater, yuh—"

"Suze! There you are, I've been looking for you all evening," Vince interrupted, walking over to me and my pathetic posse (i.e. Paul). Thank God he came when he did because if Paul would have finished that statement, I would have just died right there. No hesitations.

Vince slipped his arms around my waist from behind, and said to me, whilst swaying us from side to side, "You look gorgeous, darlin'. What have you been up to?"

"Hmm," I smiled, turning around, and giving him a quick kiss, "you don't look too bad yourself, partner—" Which he DIDN'T. He had his hair slicked back, and I believe a tux just does something to a guy like Vince. It does something like make you suddenly want to lick him or something which is just beyond kinky and pretty much lands in the disturbing category. But he was just so ruggedly good looking. With a gesture of my hand in the direction of Paul, I admitted, "I've just been talking to old friends."

And when Vince saw who I was talking about, he let go of me, and a wide, giddy smile was created on his face.

"Lucky," Paul said, returning the gesture of huge, embarrassing smiles, and calling Vince by his old childhood nickname, "you clean up pretty well. How've you been?"

"How've I been?" Vince asked, pulling Paul into one of those masculine guy hugs. "How've _you_ been? I haven't talked to you since, er, you know. What have you done with yourself?"

And it was then that a huge conversation involving old memories, old friends, and new jobs commenced. I was included occasionally, but mostly, I just stayed out of their way, and mentally mocked the people in the surrounding room. It's a lot more fun to do when you're with another person, but I deal with what I have. Plus, it's a huge boost for your self-esteem. It really is effective.

"Do you remember on one of our last trips with Pete," Paul was asking, a few drinks and about an hour later. Vince was already in stitches because apparently he did recall this one. I listened intently since I had never heard this one. I had never heard a lot about my dad, "he held up his glass and—"

But it looked like once again, I wouldn't be hearing this tale. It was at that moment that the double doors entering the country club burst open. Standing at the door was obviously a foreigner because all he was wearing was a loin cloth and one of those safari hats. His mocha colored skin looked paler than usual since his dark tattoos looked ink black when in reality; they were probably navy-blue.

All the chattering died, and every head in the room turned toward the strange new face. For only a mere second, the silence was louder than the chattering had been beforehand, piercing each of our ears. Slowly, the chatter started up again, but it was basically just whispers. Who the hell was this guy interrupting this boring reunion?

After what seemed like hours, the man finally spoke, but only in choked phrases. "I—I . . . am looking for a Susannah Simon. It is of the very important that I speak to her. Is she here?"

As he began to enter the room in strides which made it seem like he was exhausted, every single head in the entire room seemed to turn towards me. Vince was the worst looking at me very strangely as if to say, "What the hell?" Give or take a few words. Being the sexist that he is, he grabbed my hand, and pushed through the sea of people that had formed around our new guest. "This is Susannah Simon," he said, "Who the hell are you?"

Gasping for air, our new friend swallowed, and shook his head, "Not important. I have—" he began, taking a step forward, but then collapsing. Vince and I rushed forward, not knowing what the hell we were doing. Everyone else behind me seemed to be in a blur. The only thing that mattered was that we knew what this messenger wanted.

Vince propped the guy up, and seemed to notice at the same time I did that there were two perfectly circular puncture wounds on the right side of his stomach. A mixture of crusted and congealed blood was surrounding what looked like a bite. There was a dry river of it that slid down the center of his stomach.

Without thanking Vince, the guy kept his intense, black eyes locked on me. With sharp, jagged breath intakes, he said in disturbed English, ". . . Letter . . . from Peter . . . Simon . . ."

Finding my voice for the first time in the last couple of minutes, I swallowed, shaking my head rapidly. "No. You must be mistaken. My father died twenty-two years ago." Realizing what must be going on, I added, "If this is some sort of joke, this is really not funny."

However, seized in his limp hand was a dirty scrap of paper. He handed it to me, and then almost immediately afterwards, passed out.

Holding the paper in my hand, everything else seemed to not exist. I could barely here Vince shouting for someone to call an ambulance even when he added when no one was listening because they were as shocked as I was, "NOW!" The frantic people passed around me in a blur, and it seemed as if my heart was pounding in my skull. Finally, not being able to take it, I opened the paper and read in my father's sloppy, precise handwriting, my head spinning:

_Peter Simon_

_July 18, 1984_

_Help me_

_The light is the source of destruction_


	3. Uncle Sam Back in Action

**TG/N:** Just wanted to answer and reply to a few of the reviewers:

To Amethyst Hannah and Tasha: ((snort)) Do I really give off this vibe in which I am some evil seductress author who makes all their characters cheat on their significant others? Give me some credit here, peeps! I'm not all evil . . . or am I? Besides, if you had a Vince Luxmoore, would you trade him for Paul Slater? Tasha, I didn't really have an ending for that phrase. I leave it up to your imagination. And your wish was already set in motion.

To Jamie: Suze is actually thirty-six, and Vince, Paul, and Jesse are forty-two, which means that Suze was born in 1969, and the three gents were born in 1963. I totally picked the ages before the birthdays, I swear!

To Adel: My dear, once again, I have no idea what you are going on about, but I thank you for responding anyway.

To Lily: I love the word kinky, and, yes, Jesse's eyebrow scar is from a dog bite like in the original series.

To Crystal: No, ha-ha, never lameness. Unfortunately, there is no Texan in this author's life. I have a thing for Texan's now after reading a book by Carla Negger's called, "The Cabin". It was one of those cheesy romance novels, but it had a good plot. Anyway, the guys in her book were Texas Rangers. I thought about making Vince a Texas Ranger too, but I will leave the rangering to Walker. Plus, I thought it was just a BIT too much. Although, ((sigh)), I certainly WISH there was a Texan in my life.

Also, a note to everyone: I HAPPEN TO LIKE THE NAME VINCE! He is NOT based off of Vince Vaughn in any shape, way, or form. Please. As if I would be that LAME.

Okay, so maybe it is based off of him SLIGHTLY, but ONLY SLIGHTLY.

* * *

"_Suze. Suze! Susannah!"_

I sat up groggily, and rubbed my cheek, still feeling the stinging smart of whatever had come in contact with my face. My head was still spinning, and my stomach felt queasy. "Ow," I sputtered, my voice sounding thick and raspy, "what the hell was that for?"

"Sorry, baby," said Paul anxiously, balancing on the balls of his feet right next to me; his eyes level with mine. He planted a kiss on my forehead and said as he stood up and offered me a hand, "You scared me, Simon. First, you fainted, and then you wouldn't wake up. That's why I slapped you. Sorry," he added again, as if I hadn't heard him the first time.

I accepted his outstretched hand, and he helped me get to a sturdy standing position. My head still spinning, I didn't acknowledge the fact that Paul had called me 'baby', or the fact that he kissed my forehead. Besides, with one glance at the room surrounding us, I realized we had created quite a scene. Everyone was silently staring at the two of us as we brushed ourselves off. Apparently, Paul was feeling as awkward as I was if the way he was suddenly ushering me towards the exit was any indication. Waving a hasty good-bye, and uttering a "Good Evening", he then shoved the two of us through the double doors and into the adjacent hallway.

"You didn't have to hit me so hard," I assured Paul, jogging just to keep up with him. "Hey! Where's Vince?"

Paul waited for me to catch up and answered, "He went with our new foreign friend to the hospital. That's where we're heading, so hurry up." Turning his head sideways, Paul glanced at me and frowned. "Here," he said, whipping his tuxedo jacket off, and offering it to me, "you're shivering. Take this. The material on that dress can't be all that warm. I gotta admit though: that dress is doing stuff to me."

I was shivering, certainly, but not for the reason Paul thought. Not by a long shot. I like to think evidence that my father might be alive was actually the cause of my shivering, but, damn it, I would not get my hopes up.

"Thanks," I said, more conscious of the jacket's owner than I should have been. Slipping his jacket on, I added, smirking, "You can have it when I'm done wearing it. The dress, I mean."

Paul laughed and held the door open for me, the one leading into the cool, starry evening. "Touché," he smirked, "but that's not what I meant. I meant—"

"I know what you meant," I interrupted, not wanting to hear him finish that comment. That was something I didn't need at this moment. "And I would appreciate it if you would stop while you're ahead."

The two of us remained silent as we walked towards wherever Paul had parked his car. I didn't have to have a degree in human studies to realize, just by his actions and comments, there was a lot left unsaid between Paul and me. But there wasn't a chance in hell I was opening that can of worms tonight.

"Nice of _Vincent_ to wait with me, wouldn't you say?" I voiced randomly.

Instead of agreeing like I thought he would, Paul took Vince's defense. "Hey, don't think like that. Vince just felt like he should go with the guy. He asked me to look after you. I'm just as good, possibly better, substitute, wouldn't you say?"

I ignored his last remark, and instead pondered something else. I think I underestimated Paul and Vince's friendship. Paul had his infatuation with me, but Vince was his best friend. He wasn't going to jeopardize his friendship over something as trivial as me.

. . . Well, so I thought.

"Hurry up and get in the car," Paul commanded, his slicked back hair askew and blowing softly in the east coast summer breeze. "We don't know how much longer that guy has, and, personally, I'd like to know who he is, and where he gets off making phony mess—"

I stopped short. "Wait a minute. This is your _car_?" Before my eyes was parked a powder blue Volkswagon New Beatle. I snorted and laughed. "I always figured you to drive a Bentley, a Rolls-Royce, an Aston Martin, or even a Mercedes, for God's sake. But a common folk, _German_, VW? A _Bug_ even? Wow. That's just—"

Paul clicked the open button on the remote control, and the car beeped in acknowledgement of the command. "Yeah, I know," he blurted, opening the passenger side for me," no self-respected person would drive this fag-mobile, but the rental place screwed up. I do live in Seattle, you know, so I needed a car."

I tittered, and Paul scowled, adding, "Just so you know, I do actually drive an Aston Martin back home. Didn't fit on the plane though."

I watched as he slammed my door shut, and walked around the car to the other side. Even though it appeared he had moved the driver's seat as far back as it went, Paul's knees were scrunched and on top of the steering wheel making driving a difficult task. The guy was no slouch in the height department registering at only a few inches shorter than Vince.

With a scowl on his face, Paul jammed the gear into reverse, and pulled out of the parking spot. I smoothed my dress down and said, suppressing the urge to laugh, "Well, at least you got it in a respectable color. Powder blue is all the r—"

"Shut the hell up, Suze!" Paul spat, pulling out of the country club's parking lot entirely. "And put your damn seatbelt on."

**+SS+**

The drive to the hospital had been uneventful. There was one instance where Paul had slammed on the brake causing both his knees to slam into the steering wheel and a slew of curses to pour out of his mouth.

The hospital had finally zoomed into view, the muted glow of the parking lot lights creating glares on the windshield, and Paul, muttering angrily under his breath, pulled into a spot. The tires squealed to a sudden halt, flinging me forward. No sooner had I straightened myself out when Paul was already outside of the car issuing me commands as if he was Captain Kirk to my _Enterprise_.

. . . I'm sorry about that reference. I blame Vince entirely for it. I mean, you try having a conversation without being able to stop any _Stargate_ or _Battlestar Gallactica_ references slipping out of your mouth. Then, imagine that conversation being with Gwyneth Paltrow over dress ideas for the Oscars.

"Now," Paul said, leaning his head into the car, his face dark, "I'll be in and out as soon as we find out the guy's health status. Stay out in the car, and, please, don't do anything stupid. . . ."

As Paul started a light jog to the entrance, I burst out of the car, angrily, and protested, "Hey!—Wh-wait a minute! I'm going with you! This concerns me just as much as—and I would never do anything stupid!"

In heels, I ran as fast as I could to the entrance, eventually reaching it, and barging through the doors. This earned a few not exactly polite looks from onlookers in the waiting room and a couple of nurses from behind the reception desk.

"Uh, yes, I need to know where a Dr. Vincent Luxmoore is," I heard Paul saying to the nurse at the front desk, working his charm to the fullest extent. Eww, the nurse had to be one of those twenty-something girls. Get someone your own age, Paul. "He came in an ambulance with an unidentifiable man who appeared to be of Indian descent."

The blushing nurse was more than happy to oblige even though I'm pretty sure it's not allowed to permit a stranger to go into someone's hospital room.

Immediately, I rushed forward to join Paul, but he dismissed me by rudely saying, "Stay in the waiting room, Simon."

I tried to protest, but Paul and Nurse Betty were already through the doors entering the patient area. I sighed gustily, slumped my shoulders, and, accepting defeat, I allowed my body to fall into one of the ugly, overstuffed hospital chairs. There was no use in going after Paul again. He had probably issued a notice to half the hospital staff that I was not permitted to leave this spot.

Jerk.

It wasn't until I had been sitting in the waiting room for approximately five minutes that I happened across this month's _Glamour_ magazine. Nonchalantly grabbing it, to my shock, I saw my face smiling back at me. I had completely forgotten that I had agreed to do an interview and photo shoot. Usually _Glamour_ didn't put fashion designers on their cover, but they said I was a good role model to women of all ages, plus, they liked my clothing designs a lot. I honestly laughed when they had called me a good role model. Believe me, if they had known of the secret paranormal life I lead, and the way I handle said paranormal, _Glamour_ would be rewording themselves almost instantly.

Flipping to where my interview was (I wanted to make sure I didn't sound stupid), I began reading it.

Minutes turned to hours, and different people were filtering in and out of the emergency ward with broken limbs, pencils in eye sockets, placentas popping out of heads, etc.

(A/N: Author imagines a placenta popping out of someone's head and nearly falls off her lounge chair in hysterics.)

I had long finished my interview and was happy to find that I came off sounding quite sophisticated. Even by society's definition of sophistication. By this time, I was stretched out on one of the sofas, much to the chagrin of a biker who was there for a burn from his motorcycle's exhaust, and was trying to keep from closing my eyes. Between having to make my presence at Vince's reunion and receiving a note from my dead father, I was weary. But no matter what I did, I couldn't get my father's supposed letter out of my head, and I couldn't ignore that, despite my optimistic cynicism and my anger at the guy, there was this sliver of hope and happiness shining through my boarded up window of pessimism. I had to keep thoughts like that to a low. I was not going to set myself up only for despair to rear its ugly head and shatter everything. It made me feel sick at myself that I could still be angry at my dad for abandoning me basically. And it sickens me more that I loved him, I think, and he had to go out to the middle of the jungle and get himself killed. He never made time for me. Always involved with one of his damn books. Selfish bastard.

_The light is the source of destruction._

What the hell did that mean? It sounded like good ol' cryptic Dad, but it was so bizarre. The destruction of what? Ice? It didn't make sense! The letter was written one year after we lost contact from him. If he was still alive, why didn't the guys the government sent find him?

_That's what this is_, I thought, pulling the crumpled piece of paper from my clutch. _This is the government getting back at me for not voting. This is their idea of a funny joke, communist fascists!_

While fingering one of the torn corners, I noticed something make a glint in the crappy halogen lights above. Curious, I pulled my specs out of my clutch as well and slipped them on. I brought the paper closer to my eyes and saw at once that what glared was a shiny, dark sort of powder. The powder was used to draw some squiggly lines, some less than signs, and something that appeared to be a snake swallowing itself tail first. Most of the rest of the drawings were lost due to decay and carelessness. Not giving it a second thought more, I placed it back to its place, and resumed sitting on the sofa; staring at the ceiling.

Not remembering a watch, and not in view of a wall clock, I also resumed a game I had made up called "Guess What Time it is Judging By How Antsy and Bored You Are Feeling. Use the Outdoors to Assist You In Your Speculations". I figured Milton Bradley and Co. would be giving me a patent any day now. Since I had walked around the waiting room four times, walked to the vending machine twice, and had the sudden urge to walk up to the nurse and ask her if she was expecting, when she clearly was not, twice, I gandered that it had been three hours at the minimum.

Just when I had worked up the gall to ask the nurse of her pregnatal status, the double doors to the patients' area opened. Out walked a very tired looking Vince, followed closely by "I—Just—Wanna—Rip—Your—Pants—Off" Slater. Vince's hair was all disheveled, one of his shirt tails was out of his pants (how this happened, I don't want to know), his bow tie hung untied and limp around his neck, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows. The poor guy looked as exhausted as I felt. When he caught my glance, he rushed over to me and pulled me into one of those hugs that make you feel important and loved. After hugging me, he held me out at arms length, and then kissed me in a "thank God you're still alive" way.

Pulling me into another hug, he said into my hair, his voice thick with emotion, "Thank God you're alright, Suze. The last thing I knew, you collapsed, and I didn't know if you suddenly died or passed out. I'm sorry I wasn't there, but I needed to find out more about that guy."

"It's okay," I assured him. "Paul and I had fun." Ignoring the look I received from Paul's end (really, this wasn't the time), I asked, pulling away from Vince, "What's the verdict?"

Vince shook his head, and Paul took a seat on the coffee table vertical from the two of us. "He didn't make it," Vince admitted, his head down low. "He received the anti-venom way too late. Hemotoxic venom, they said. Here, would you hold these for me?" I took the cuff links and threw them into my clutch along with the other stuff. As if reading my thoughts, he added, "Other than what we heard him say at the country club, we couldn't extract any information from him. He was in no condition to move, let alone answer some questions."

The three of us then went very silent, but each knew what the other was thinking because we all happened to be on the same thought wave:

Peter Simon.

"So what do we do from here?" Paul asked, scuffing his shoe on the linoleum, finally breaking the silence.

We all looked at each other with questioning eyes. It was while Vince was about to answer when he was interrupted by a deep, accented voice.

"Visiting hours are over," he said in an authoritative way, "and unless you all have an appointment this late, which I doubt, then the three of you must leave the building."

Not having had one of the best nights in the history of nights, the three of us were pretty moody. Paul looked as if the cable company had taken away the Sci-Fi channel right in the middle of _The Twilight Zone_ or something, I was just pissed in general, and Vince looked positively murderous. In almost exact unison, we turned to face the insensitive jerk-off—

—who happened to be Dr. Jesse de Silva M.D.

Completely pleased by this turn of events, I smiled widely and leaped off the couch I had been sitting on.

"Jesse!" I squealed, nearly knocking him over by the impact of my hug.

"Ah, _querida_, what a surprise!" Jesse smiled, returning my gesture after his initial shock. With his white doctor's coat on, he looked like quite the respected professional. I let go of the man and walked back over to where I was sitting. Well, technically, I moved since I was now on Vince's lap, but we were on the same sofa, so it still counted.

Jesse then spotted Vince and Paul and smiled broadly as he made his way towards out little posse. Vince, having always been comfortable with his sexuality, lifted me off his lap, got up, and pulled Jesse into a huge hug, greeting him energetically. I sat dejectedly on the couch and watched as Paul also got up from his spot, but instead of hugging Jesse like Vince did, he just smiled warmly at him and shook his hand.

I had always envied the strong bond the three guys had when I was growing up. Sure, as I got older, I was more 'included' I guess you could say, but I never connected with anyone like the three of them did. Even now when I'm actually married to one of the guys, I've never felt like I received an invitation to their party. It's kind of weird actually, dwelling on it.

After some light chit-chat, the three walked back to where I was sitting. Paul reclaimed his seat on the coffee table, Vince slid in next to me, pulling me closer, and Jesse whipped a plastic chair over to our area, swung it around, and straddled it.

"So what brings the three of you here? All at the same time?" Jesse asked, his scarred eyebrow raised slightly higher than the other. I guess you would consider it to be really weird that the three of us were at the exact same place in the exact same city considering that none of us even live in Pennsylvania.

I yawned loudly and snuggled in closer to Vince. "It's a long story, de Silva."

Jesse leaned back and laughed. "I've got plenty of time, _querida_. As you can probably tell, the hospital isn't exactly thriving."

"Alrighty then, here goes . . ."

**+SS+**

"_Nombre de Dios_."

"Yeah," I agreed stoically, my gaze forward, not really focusing on anything in particular.

"_Nombre de Dios_," Jesse breathed out again. His eyes were wide with amazement and non belief. He ran a hand through his hair and breathed out once again.

"Yeah," I repeated in the same tone of voice as before. Jesse had taken the story much in the same way I had. There was no way, like me, he believed that my father was alive. It just seemed so bizarre.

"_Nombre de D_—"

"ALRIGHT, de Silva!" Paul roared, lifting his face out of his hands. He was looking worse for wear; his eyes dark, his hair sticking out at odd angles due to all the times he had run his hands through it tonight. "We get it! It's unbelievable! Understood."

Jesse swallowed and leaned back in his chair. "Sorry, Slater," he said, "it's just . . . it's just—_Dios_! Did he really give you that n—?"

"Yes!" Paul burst again. He gestured towards me. "Would you just show him the damn note, Suze?"

I glared at Paul, but, reluctantly, searched through my clutch for the note. When I found it, I tossed it Jesse's way, and he caught it.

As he began reading the note, I happened to notice two, man and woman, very professional looking people walk through the grand entrance to the ER building. The woman's gaze flickered over in our direction, but immediately left when my gaze met hers. She and her counterpart continued to the front desk and began speaking to the nurses in hushed tones, occasionally glancing in our direction. I snuggled in closer to Vince, closing my eyes, and thought nothing of the two again until they began walking towards where, now, the four of us were sitting. Apparently Paul noticed the two coming nearer as well because he, like me, sat more erect and glared wearily in their direction.

"_Ay caramba_," Jesse uttered, handing the note back to me. As soon as I felt the note on my skin, I jammed it in my clutch. Something about the approaching strangers shouted 'UNTRUSTWORTHY'. Maybe it was paranoia, maybe it was intuition. Whatever it was, it ended up helping me in the end.

"Excuse me," the woman interrupted. She was dressed in a black work suit, and her auburn hair was swept up into some sophisticated, yet simple design. According to the identification card pinned to her lapel, her title was Felicity Grabowski, _Special OPS Leader_, "we're looking for a Ms. Susannah Simon. None of you would happen to know who she is, or where we might be able to contact her by chance, would you?"

Before any of us could answer her inquiry, Paul leaped up and smiled charmingly at Felicity Grabowski, _Special OPS Leader_. "That depends," he declared flirtatiously. Always about sex with him. He's addicted like Dr. Christian Troy on _Nip/Tuck_. "Who wants to know?"

Before the once composed, now blushing furiously, Felicity Grabowski could say anything, her counterpart stepped in the way, blocking her from Paul's view. Not only was his physique intimidating,—his facial features seemed to be chiseled out of stone; his brow permanently furrowed; plus, he was at least 6'6", and one hundred fifty pounds heavier than Paul in muscle mass—but his voice was daunting as well when he finally spoke.

"We do," came his rumbling response. "Meaning," he continued, "Special Agent Grabowski and myself, General Dax Holdren. Now, do you have the answers to any of our questions?"

Paul's smile immediately disappeared. He retreated and sat back on his coffee table. Well, now I knew how to stop Paul while he was ahead. All I had to do was give General Holdren a call. His arms were nearly the size of my thighs. That's downright scary!

I felt Vince's grip tighten protectively. Nudging him in reassurance, he loosened his grip, and I stood up. "I'm Susannah Simon. What seems to be the problem?" I asked; which was a pretty stupid thing to ask considering I already knew. Well, I had a good idea of what was going on. I mean, General Holdren was obviously military personnel. If you couldn't tell by the buzz cut covered neatly beneath a green beret, then it was made pretty obvious by the olive colored uniform, the various medals and pins, and the black boots that shined more than my hair ever has.

Felicity had to be some top secret service agent, or an operative for the CIA. Just the way she held herself and dressed proved it. Besides, I bet she even had a pair of shades her folk always seemed to wear.

Sunglasses aside, it was pretty obvious what these two were doing here, or rather, who these two were working for:

The United States government.

Somehow, those commies had gotten word about the "survival" of my father, and they were here to interrogate me about it. Well, I might as well help them get to the point, you know. Make their jobs a little easier.

"Do you have news of my father then?" I asked, trying to keep my rage in check again. It was happening all over again, it seemed. It was as if it was twenty-two years ago, and the government was interfering once again. _Keep it cool, Simon. They haven't even done anything yet. Maybe this time they actually want to help you out._

_Yeah, and maybe Paul is the up and coming Christ the Jews have been searching for._

"Lemme guess: you've come to find me because you have more information on my father, right?" I asked. My voice was drenched in annoyance and sarcasm. Anyone who knew me, or actually cared about me would notice. But since when has the government cared about me? Since when did the government bother visiting my mother, only to find her angry and weeping? Since when did they come to comfort me at age fourteen when I cried silently at night, completely confused about where my feelings for my dad resided?

The answer was: they didn't. Twenty-two years wasn't going to suddenly turn their black hearts gold. A hidden agenda was buried deep beneath their pleasant demeanors. It was inevitable.

Thrown by my sudden outburst, the two gave each other a quick glance before once again composing themselves. Agent Grabowski, having gotten over Paul's in-your-face-approach, shook her head and now looked like the intimidating professional she was.

"Not exactly," she confirmed in that unique voice of hers. It wasn't high pitched and annoying like some women, but it was a shockingly attractive, deeper voice. Not James Earl Jones, but maybe closer to Melissa Ethridge, only much more attractive sounding. She took a step forward to, I guess, intimidate us, but it merely caused Paul to blow a Grabowski filled load. He didn't, mind you. I was only exaggerating. Eww . . .

"General Holdren and I are part of the Special Operatives group corresponding with the Commander in Chief," Felicity continued. She began fumbling with something on the inside of her jacket. Paul, mistaking this for self-fondling, looked even closer to exploding. Just stop looking at Paul, Suze! Problem solved! "We received word of a—"

"Oh, no you don't," I interrupted, shaking my head ardently; my humorless laugh wild. "No freaking way. I am not going through that again."

Once again, the two operatives stared at me in bewilderment having no idea what I was talking about. I heard Vince groan. He stood up and placed a firm hand on my shoulder. "Stop it, Suze," he muttered quietly. "Think about what you're doing. We don't need a national epidemi—"

"Going through what again?" General Holdren asked; his green beret only slightly softening his otherwise terrifying person.

"This!" I reiterated loudly. Vince retreated back to the couch, shaking his head in disbelief. Or embarrassment, it was hard to tell. "This whole government intervention thing. It's not going to happen because remember what happened the first time Uncle Sam felt like intruding upon the Simon family? My father gets assigned to a search for eh cure for cancer never to be seen or heard of again for the next two DECADES. Remember that?"

General Holdren pulled down on his jacket while Agent Grabowski fumbled with the correct thing to say. "Well, I—your father agr—"

"As if the fact that my dad was lost in South America, or wherever the hell he ended up wasn't turmoil enough, Uncle Sam felt the need to pry into the Simon household for the second time," I continued, not really caring what these two _did_ work for the American government and could pull an AK-47 out on me at anytime. My blood was going from simmer to boil at a faster rate than expected, and suddenly, I was reminded that I didn't care what they did to me. Since I didn't have my own militia, this was my form of revenge against The Man. Pretty lame, but it helped me get things out into the open. I tended to be one of those people who kept things to themselves, but I was discovering that it felt good to let things out. Never in a million years would I admit that to myself aloud because showing weakness was just unacceptable.

I noticed Paul, Vince, and Jesse were staying out of this. The three of them were just sending death glares at my newly acquainted enemies, which was more of a nuisance than a help. I guess they figured I could handle this on my own. Aww, how chivalrous. Not.

"Now, during the second interference, Uncle Sam thought he'd send out search parties to find Dr. Peter Simon with reassurances to the family unit that he would be found," I explained, beginning a monotonous pace-a-thon in the allotted space I had. "Thanks to this sense of false hope, the blow was even bigger to the Simon family when Uncle Sam admitted Peter Simon could NOT be found."

General Holdren laughed—yes, _laughed_—and said, "That can hardly be considered our fault, Ms. Simon. The Amazon is an immense place. It was impossible for technology at that time to be expected to see through the dense layers of the rainforest. Be reasonable."

I laughed coldly and stopped pacing. Did he even know who he was dealing with? "No-no-no-no-no," I objected. "_You_ be reasonable. After those two devastating experiences, what gives you the idea that there is any chance in hell I am letting you interfere again?"

This time, General Holdren neither laughed nor smiled. Instead, his expression darkened, and he took two gargantuan steps forward. "Because," he hissed sinisterly, "you have no choice. Besides, if you refuse to work with us,"—he patted his right thigh,—"I will have this Glock 9 loaded and fired directly at your skull well before you can utter 'Uncle Sam' ever again, understand?"

Well . . . I'm convinced. We tried. Retreat. Now.

Before the general could make another step towards me, Jesse interfered by stepping directly in front of his bulking figure. He grabbed General Holdren's outstretched fist, and warned menacingly, "If you so much as lay a finger on this woman, you will have to deal with the three of us." He let go of the general's arm, and continued, "I had more faith in the American government. I thought they were busy promoting freedom in both the Middle East and our country, but instead, I find them making petty threats to helpless women—"

"Hey!"

"—who have done nothing to deserve it. Now," Jesse continued, his intonation dark, "state what needs to be said, then leave. You are not welcome among the citizens that are unfortunately paying you your salary. So dwell on that tiny fact before you begin threatening us again, or the next time you look, you may not be able to afford to fill your Ferrari's tank all the way."

Looking angrier than McDonald's customer who's just been dealt a slow server, General Holdren stepped back and simply settled for glaring in Jesse's direction. He allowed his co-op to take over, which she did; thankfully, because I had a feeling General Holdren would rip Jesse apart limb by limb. Sweet, sweet, guy, but very stupid. Well, no, that's not right either. I mean, he's the M.D. here, not me.

Agent Grabowski walked over to where I was standing and handed me a decrepit, yellowed photograph. It was an old photo, in only black and white, showcasing two guys in your stereotypical jungle. The one guy was obviously not from around there. He had on one of those safari hats, wire rimmed glasses, Bermuda shorts, and a familiar tattoo of a rose with the word "Mom" written across it was on his shoulder. This was my father. He was certainly younger, and a lot thinner, but it was my dad all the same. I chuckled a bit as I recalled my dad's story about how he received that tattoo. Apparently, when he was in Nam, he got really drunk, and the boys decided to play a prank on him. Not very funny considering he had it for the rest of his life, but humor varies I guess.

The other man in the photo was unrecognizable to me. He was obviously a native of wherever they were. He looked slightly familiar, but I couldn't place him. Before I could ask what this had anything to do with the situation at hand, Felicity explained herself.

With her finger pointed at the photograph, she explained, "As I was saying before, we received word of a man, firstly, crashing the Drexel University's nineteen year reunion this evening, and then finally being admitted into this hospital. Although he is unidentifiable, as of now, he matches up with the man in this photograph."

I stared at her in incredulity. "Whoa, hold the phone! How the hell do you know all this stuff? Kind of creepy in that stalkerish way, wouldn't you say?"

Felicity smiled at me in a sly way, and said, "We're the government. We know all."

I took another glance at the photograph in my hand, and sure enough, the other man in the photo was definitely Mr. Nameless. Although way younger, that tattoo on his body was recognizable. That's why he was so familiar because I had met him just this evening.

"We'll be doing some tests on the body just to get some identification," Felicity explained further, "but it was also understood that the man handed you a piece of paper admittedly from Peter Simon, is that not correct?"

Before I could utter my astonished 'yes', Vince stepped into the ring. He was kind of unfamiliar without his cowboy hat on, but still totally gorgeous. "Excuse me, ma'am. I don't mean to interrupt but what does this have to do with anything that's been experienced tonight?"

For the first time since we met her, Felicity smiled girlishly. She, like every other woman in the world, was affected by Vince's charming mannerisms. Unfortunately, it appeared that she had no chance seeing as how I snagged him first. This thought in turn caused me to smile giddily. Amazing how a group of mature, sophisticated adults go to teens with raging hormones in seconds flat.

"That note is government property," Felicity said kindly, fluttering her eyelashes that much more. "We need to do tests on it to see if it is actual evidence that Dr. Peter Simon is in fact alive. Well, actually, it's more like we need to check if the note is a fraud and a danger to national security if we follow up on it. We already have speculations of where Peter Simon is residing."

"Residing?" I blurted, not being able to contain myself any longer. "You say that as if he sits there on a lounge chair with a damned margarita in his hand. If my father is still alive, he is in danger. From what I've read, the Amazon rainforest is a fatal place. Not only the animals, but the hostile tribes that 'reside' there as well."

Felicity looked a tinge put out. And why shouldn't she be? All I'd been doing the whole night was berating her, and it wasn't anything personal on her part. She was just doing her job. But I didn't care. This was just unacceptable. Paul thought so too, if the way he shot out of his seat and began firing words in the woman's direction was any indication.

"There's no way that note is government property if it was given to Suze," he protested. "Besides, what are your speculations on where Simon actually is located? This should be interesting, considering the first time you had your 'speculations' you failed miserably."

Agent Grabowski shook her head. "That's classified information that I am not to disclose with you," she informed, keeping her tone monotonous. "Hand the note over, Ms. Simon. The faster you do so, the faster we can get out of your hair. It's a win-win deal as I see it."

Paul took another step forward, infuriated. "Hell no. That note is not leaving Ms. Simon's possession. You have no authority to be taking things left and right," he shouted, flailing his arms to get the point across.

"Would you please keep your voices down? Visiting hours are over, and this is a hospital, in case you're forgetting. Not some interrogation room," one of the nurses behind the front desk asked of us. Paul, frustrated as it was, made a rude face to her, and then flipped her the bird. Yeah, that's nice, Paul. Get us kicked out of the HOSPITAL. But I shouldn't have worried because the nurse only looked shocked and then ran into the back room, whispering frantically to her coworkers.

Felicity didn't back down from her instructions. She too took a step forward and explained to us, "We are sending troops out next week to scout out the speculated area for your father. That note will be a major breakthrough with our investigation if you hand it over. If you don't do so willingly, I'm afraid I will have to use force."

"Next week?" Paul flipped, getting angrier, and less professional as the minutes passed by. "You should have gone and found him twenty-two years ago! The evidence points out that Peter Simon is in fact alive, so why are you postponing this until next week? The man is in need of rescue NOW!"

I placed a hand on Paul's shoulder, and after jumping in fright, he calmed down considerably. Grabbing my clutch, I searched it for the note, and handed it over to Felicity Grabowski. Before doing so, I whispered softly to Paul, "Don't worry, I got this covered." Whether this piece of information pleased him or tranquillized him, he ended up backing down, slightly, and retaking his seat.

Felicity, looking extremely pleased with herself, placed the note into her inner pocket on her jacket. She motioned for her partner to once again join her by her side, and smiled at us widely. "Thank you. Your father is in good hands. Don't worry about it."

Before they could walk away, I stopped them. "Wait!" I shouted. I couldn't just sit idly by while they interfere all over again. Why did this keep happening? "What are we supposed to do while you're doing tests? This is my father we're talking about."

General Holdren smiled sinisterly and said nonchalantly, before continuing his stroll to the exit "You'll think of something. Why don't you design a pair of shoes or something? It's what you're qualified to do. Just like I am qualified to do my job and find your father."

I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach. That was low. Even for a government official. He was implying that the only thing I was smart enough to do was draw out shoe designs! I graduated with top marks, thank you very much. I'm very intelligent. It just so happens I prefer to design clothing. Vince, also discovering the general's undertone, growled, and made a move to go forward, but with all my strength, I had to pull him back to keep him from doing anything stupid. "Don't," I whispered in a soothing tone. "It's not worth it."

Paul, however, seemed to think it was. While I was busy trying to tame Vince, he shot forward, and shouted, "Why you cock-sucking, mother fuh—"

Before he could finish his well thought of speech (the insults were ones Shakespeare would have been proud of), Felicity whistled for General Holdren to come hither. She whispered something in his ear, and I watched in horror as his thin mouth curled into a cruel smile. "With pleasure," he uttered, as he walked towards Paul, his fists clenched. Before Paul even knew what was coming, General Holdren punched him so hard in the face, that the force sent him flying backwards, so that he crashed on top of the coffee table.

"I'll pay for it," he said to the horror stricken nurses who saw the whole thing. To Paul, he hissed, "That will teach you to talk disrespectfully to your authority figure. Have a nice evening, Mr. Slater." And with that, the Agent Grabowski and her partner exited the hospital, leaving a deadly silence behind them.

I stared down in shock at Paul's limp form sprawled out on the tattered pieces of the now dysfunctional coffee table. I seemed to be glued to my spot as did everyone else in the building, including the nurses and hospital personnel. Before any of us could recompose ourselves, Paul weakly shot up from his sprawled state and pointed angrily at the door, his mouth quivering.

"'at's vuckin' 'ullshit!" he muttered, trying to keep his mouth as closed as possible. I was curious as to why this was until he yanked his handkerchief from his pocket and coughed and spit a spew of blood from his mouth into it. Even though it grossed me out to no extent, I stared transfixed as if it was the most amazing feat I had ever seen. When he pulled the hankie away, his mouth was covered with blood, and it appeared that two fresh streams of it were pouring from his nostrils. Jesse rushed forward, took his bloodied handkerchief, and handed him a gauze pad. Vince was looking away determinedly. I had forgotten how much he hated the sight of blood. It made him queasy.

"Here, use this to staunch the flow," Jesse said as he handed Paul the gauze pad. "And use this to clean your mouth off. You're even scaring Dr. Acula," he joked, handing him another gauze pad.

"'at's 'ot vunny, de Silva," Paul, said irritated, accepting the cleansing products thankfully. Eww, it was totally gross. Some of the blood had sprayed on his shirt, and now the crisp white was tainted with Paul's crimson liquid. Well, as were most of the magazines on the floor. Including my _Glamour_ cover. Finally being able to conquer my unmovable state, I rushed over to Jesse's side and began helping him with the clean up of Paul.

**+SS+**

"Well, what do you want us to do?" Vince asked, a half an hour later. Paul had been cleaned up, except for the now dry blood on his shirt, but it wasn't flowing, so Vince didn't have an issue. After refusing medical help for Paul countless times, the four of us were seated on the concrete steps outside the ER building, contemplating Paul's last statement before Mt. St. Helens: EXTREME erupted. The sky was the same it had been every other night of my life, as was the cool breeze that was drifting by. Why did I feel as if my life had just changed completely?

Oh, yeah, maybe because it had.

"You heard those two," Vince continued, his arm around me in a comforting manner. "There is no way we can interfere. They have the note; they have the coordinates to where Pete is located. They have the equipment. We can't stand up to that. Are you nuts?"

"Maybe," Paul voiced, his voice soft, his gaze intense. I knew that look. He was staring out into the distance, but there was no mistaking that it was full of determination. I didn't know what was going on with him because Paul had always thought differently than any other person I knew, but something was up.

After the last remark, the four of us sat in silence as we watched the occasional car pass, heard the occasional dog bark, and smelled the occasional waft of the cornfield near by. This was our home. The four of us grew up here, and somehow, fate had thrown us all back together again for a reason. Each one of us sitting on those steps knew that. What we were supposed to do was beyond me, but the mission came soon enough.

Out of the blue, Jesse asked quietly, "What are you thinking about, Paul?"

He, like I had been, was staring at Paul and wondering why on earth he had that look of extreme determination pasted on his face. Even though Jesse knew him better, I knew as well that there was something Paul wasn't voicing to the rest of us.

There was a moment of silence before Paul finally answered. "I'm contemplating," he said, twiddling his thumbs. His intense gaze then focused on mine. There was a lot in that look. Longing. Sorrow. Failure. Apology. Just unspoken things in general. He finally added, in a voice so full of emotion it nearly blew me away, "I will not let what happened to you twenty-two years ago happen again to you, Suze. This time, _we'll_ be interfering."

"We?" Vince said, giving Paul a look of skepticism. His grip tightened around me, and he thought it over. Deep down, we all knew what Paul was planning. None of us had the guts to voice it out loud was the issue. "What are you suggesting here, Slater?"

Paul shook his head, and, as if he had been struck with a burst of energy, he shot out of his seated position. He began pacing back and forth, and a mischievous grin formed on his face. "Jesse," he asked excitedly, "do you still own that little airstrip down from the university?"

Caught completely off-guard by his seemingly random inquisition, Jesse sputtered, "Well, yes, but I—"

"And you still own that seaplane, right?" Paul asked once again. He sounded as giddy as my dad got when discussing praying mantises. Rethinking his thought, he added quickly, "Your pilot license hasn't been revoked or anything has it?"

Jesse now laughed. This seemed to be an endless stream of bizarre questioning. Way back when, Jesse had been a plane enthusiast. Aviation was his dream, and wouldn't you know it, he bought himself a small airstrip and a tiny seaplane to hone his aviation skills. I had thought that was extremely ridiculous, but apparently, it had some part to Paul's whatever it was. "Of course my license hasn't been revoked," he insisted, "and, yes, I still own that plane. But I don't see how any of this—"

But Paul was relentless, interrupting Jesse once again. "That plane fits about what would you say? Eight? Nine people?"

"Ten people," Jesse answered. Giving up on his other questions, he asked, "What are you driving at?"

In the spirit of Paul, he once again ignored his friend, and instead, moved his interrogation over to Vince. "And you, Lucky. Do you still have connections with that guy who's really good with computers and technology of any kind?"

Vince seemed confused for a second, but then brightened when he knew what the hell Paul was talking about. "Maverick Hacker? The Master? Of course."

"Good," Paul said, "call him up tonight and tell him to get packed up for tomorrow morning." He paused, and then pointed at Jesse. "De Silva, get that plane ready for tomorrow morning as well. There are only two more people I have to alert, and then we'll be ready to go. It's perfect."

"Go where?"

"Suze, don't you get it?" Paul asked, frantically, rounding up on me. "We're going to go after you father ourselves. There's no way they can keep us from doing this rescue properly. I've got it all planned so perfectly."

The three of us looked at Paul flabbergasted. My mouth was hanging open, Jesse's eyes were wide, and Vince made a face as if he hadn't heard correctly. This was his plan?

"Are you insane?" I wanted to know. "Number one, that was the government telling us we couldn't do anything, and number two, you really think a group of . . . about seven people, most of whom are scientists, are going to be able to rescue a man who has been missing for twenty-two years? We live in a real world here, Slater. Come back to it!"

Paul looked disconcerted at my diss of his well thought of plan. "Where is the passionate hate of all things governmental that you just exercised back in that hospital, Suze? I thought this was what you wanted. Revenge! Having things done the right way."

"Well, I do," I reasoned, "but there's no way tha—"

"Why not?" Jesse asked, standing up next to Paul. Apparently, he had taken a liking to Paul's idea. "If Paul can win the science fair every single year of our high school careers, than there is no doubt that he can pull a rescue mission off. I am with you, _amigo_."

I stared at the two of them as they smiled at each other and whacked each other on the back as guys tend to do. My gaze then shifted over to Vince. I saw a sparkle in his eyes that hadn't been there for some time, and at once I knew that Vince wanted to do this. He wanted to be rebellious for the first time in his entire life, and he wanted to do things his way. He had missed out on living life since most of the time; he had to be taking care of his mom most of his childhood. This was something he really wanted to do.

But I didn't want him to do it.

Just as he was about to pop up out of his seated position, I took a grab of his arm, and pulled him right back down. "Don't even think about it," I said angrily. "This has got to be the stupidest idea I have ever heard." Vince tried to get out of my grasp, but I wasn't relenting. "If you go over there," I threatened, "divorce papers will be in your hands faster than you can say 'no sex from me ever again'."

Vince either didn't hear me, or didn't care because the next thing I knew, he was standing next to his two best friends in the entire world. It was one of the hardest things to accept about my marriage to Vince. No matter what the issue was, mostly likely, Vince would choose Jesse and Paul over me. I know it sounds selfish, but they were like his brothers. And my dad was the only father figure he had ever had in his entire life. Even though I've come to accept it over the years, it still kind of hurts each time he chooses the guys over me.

I glared at the three angrily and said, only half serious, "Oh, well, thank you for that, _Vincent_. Now I know how much you cherish our marriage and our relationship in general. Thanks for putting it into prospective."

The three just had a good laugh while I sat by myself directly across from them. There was no way I was going to relent. Even though I wanted to save my dad, if he even was alive, that is, I wasn't going to go on some free for all with a bunch of nimrods who have never even been to South America.

"Come on, darlin'," Vince said, using his sexy voice on purpose. "This is one chance in a million. Please say you'll join us. I'm nothing without you."

I snorted at that one. Vince was never one for sappy romantic lines. It was the ruffian inside that I loved anyway. "Even _if_ I were to say yes," I pondered, "that still leaves the question of where the heck do we go? We have no idea where to even fly to. The Amazon is a big place in case I need to remind any of you. And besides that, I-I'm not a morning person."

Paul smiled, and offered his hand to me. I took it and with his assistance stood up. "I knew you'd see it our way, Simon. But as for the morning thing, there's really no choice. We need to take flight as soon as possible. The sooner we go, the longer it'll take our friends to discover what we have up our sleeves."

"And as for the location?" I asked again. He had managed to dodge the question earlier.

Paul smiled even wider and said eccentrically, "Leave that to me."


	4. Charles in Charge

"Are you out of your _f--king_ mind?"

"That's . . . what _I_ want to kn—" I started, trying to keep up with the other two in the narrow, yellow lit corridor of the marine base not too far from the airstrip. Vince and Jesse weren't with us. I had drawn the short straw.

"No, no, no, kid," Paul shook his head and replied. "Look, you're missing the point here. I am asking you as a loving, elderly brother if you would please accompany us on our trip. Your expertise would be a great asset, we are not worthy, blah, blah, blah, et cetera, et cetera."

Jack stopped short in his path, and I nearly plowed into him. He stared at his brother incredulously. "You must be out of your f--king mind," he said in blatant awe. Then, as if noticing me for the first time, he looked embarrassed and added quickly, "Sorry, Suze. It's nice seeing you again by the way."

He grinned, and I smiled genuinely in return. "Oh," I chuckled happily, "well, I—"

"Look, kid," Paul spoke, interrupting me once again. He shoved an accusatory finger in Jack's direction, "no more flattery. The situation is not that mind blowing. I am asking you if you want to come. The answer is either 'yes' or 'no,' which one is it?"

Jack sighed and scratched his buzz cut adorned head in irritation. He had changed a lot since I had last seen him which was roughly about twenty years ago, but it was still unbelievable. I could still picture him as that scrawny kid with the curly hair who was afraid of ghosts that I helped learn how to swim. He could probably out swim me nowadays. Obviously, he was much taller than he had been when I had last seen him (I have been surrounded by almost unnaturally tall men), but the changes didn't stop there. The Marine Corp had obviously affected Jack judging by the size of his biceps which were roughly the size of tree trunks. He was clad in what appeared to be the uniform olive wife-beater along with a pair of slouchy camouflage pants and a pair of combat boots that reached mid-calf. A couple dog tags on chains clanked raucously around his neck as we continued walking back towards the exit presumably. All in all, Jack had grown up to be a handsome man. According to Paul, he had been going out with his childhood sweetheart, Gwen, for sometime before they went through a traumatizing break up (for both parties). After about five years, he met a small town girl, Emily, who, I guess, he's currently still with. She's "sex on legs" as Paul had explained, but then again, he once found Kelly Prescott attractive and eventually banged her, so you can't trust his judgment.

"Uh, the answer's 'no,'" Jack said. He waved to a couple of his colleagues as they entered the barracks, preparing for the day's work and training. "I can't."

Paul smirked and wrapped an arm around his younger brother. "See?" he said, guiding him to an area of the main lobby where we were not in anyone's way. "I told you you would agree. All you needed was a little convincing, and yuh—Wait. What-what-what do you mean you can't? What are you talking about, 'No?' This is an opportunity of a lifetime, kid, and you're not even politely declining, you're bluntly stating, 'No?' Am I hearing this correctly because I believe you just said, 'No'?"

"He said NO, Paul. Get over it!" I finally interjected, annoyed at his attempted James Woods/Edward Norton in _The Italian Job_ persona. You're not a cop, Paul. You are a biologist.

Jack gave his thanks to me and once again repeated his answer. I placed my hand on his shoulder and said halfway jokingly, "Jack, please reconsider. If you don't do it for yourself, then do it for me. Please. I'll be with a group of old, aging scientists. I need to at least have one person my age around. Please, Jack, as a friend?"

Jack gave a disgruntled sigh and once again scratched the top of his head in annoyance. "Look," he said, his intonation sharp, "even if I wanted to tag along, I couldn't. I'm being deported overseas on Friday. I'm sorry, but it's just not possible for me at the time. You want me there? Bring it up to my commanding officer."

The eldest sibling mimicked his brother's frustrated exhale almost perfectly. After 'subtly' readjusting himself, he accused, "Excuses, excuses, excuses. That's almost what Suze said. You two are like carbon copies. Maybe you're our sister."

I shuddered and watched as Paul grimaced at the realization of what he had just proclaimed. It was amazing how the guy could be making sexual (yet gross) cracks while wearing something as completely innocent as a Ralph Lauren polo. The guy was wearing a pair of khaki Dockers Stain Defender slacks. How does someone taint something so seemingly pure? I mean, come on! Loafers! You don't make incest jokes while wearing loafers! "I'm not even going to grant that comment with a response, Slater."

Paul only laughed. He wrapped an arm around Jack in a brotherly fashion and coaxed, "Jack Christopher Slater, live on the rebellious side for once! Suze can't always be there to hold your hand and guide you across the roaring rapids. I know the plan is far fetched—it's _f--king_ crazy!—and I know the notification is on short notice, but please. I'm asking you as a much loved member of the Slater Clan to come along."

"Are you crazy, you jack—" He noted me once again and changed his insult. "—you jerk?" Jack wanted to know. "Leaving my post means suspension or expulsion from the Marines. They don't tolerate that sh—stuff here."

Paul's expression turned from angelic to demonic almost instantly. He removed his arm from Jack and, instead, jabbed a finger at him. "You are a bastard, Jack, to put it frankly. A selfish one."

Jack flipped him the bird, and he then walked away from both Paul and I. However, before he could get very far, I called after him softly.

"Jack," I called. For some reason, my voice was choked up, and I had to swallow before beginning again. "Would you—would you . . ." I sighed. "Do it for my dad? Please?"

Jack paused mid-stride. I waited with abated breath. It seemed like millennia before he attempted motion at all. With his hands shoved deeply into his pants' pockets, and his eyes clenched closed, he exhaled abruptly. "Okay," Jack finally agreed. "I'll do it."

You can't blame me for smiling widely and literally jumping on him, kissing his face in gratitude. I was just sort of thrilled that something had gone right. So right. A sense of hope swept over me which was a nice change from all my usual cynicism. Although, like all good things, it lasted only temporarily.

Once Jack had managed to pry me off him, he muttered a hasty 'you're welcome'. It was sort of embarrassing seeing as how all his macho troop members had gotten a glimpse of the scene. I coughed and eventually managed to get an apology out. Sometimes, I just get crazy like that.

Sense of all mannerism gone, Jack bluntly put it, "Now where the hell's the airstrip?"

**+SS+**

As I exited Paul's 'vehicle' at the airstrip, the first thing that met my sense, besides the numerous storage sheds that dotted the surrounding area, was the sound of the rotor spinning on the seaplane as both Jesse and Vince tested it out. I also noticed that Paul had kept the engine to his Bug idling and said something about it helping our little rebellion plan. I shrugged and watched as he took off toward the main road. It was none of my business what he did, nor was it my plan to find out. Besides, other than Nancy Drew, whose brain functions at that level at six, Eastern Time?

I straightened out the plaid halter top I had placed with a pair of cuffed denim capris, strappy hot pink heels, and a straw colored and textured cowboy hat. The halter was totally cute with the same color of my shoes, some gold and yellow lines, some greens, and some oranges. I was like li'l Miss Southern gal from New England. A pair of silver hoop earrings made certain this fact was distinguishable.

The two gents at the plane, Vince and Jesse, saw I had arrived and motioned for me to come join them. When I got closer to where they were standing, I noticed Jessed had a well worn baseball cap on his head, a huge pair of sunglasses adorning his face, a blue Hawaiian print shirt (?), a pair of khaki shorts, and some leather sandals. I almost asked about the shirt, but I didn't. Sometimes, sacrifices are made to secure friendship. And at that moment, I sacrificed my curiosity.

Vince had chosen to dress a bit . . . less extreme. He had neglected his cowboy hat which was a rare occurrence, although, me actually wearing one was even rarer. He wore a yellow Hurley shirt over a long sleeved white shirt along with a pair of denim shorts and a pair of Birkenstocks. He kissed me lightly in greeting and asked, "All set then, darlin'?"

I smiled momentarily and said, "Yup. We got Jack to agree to coming along. It took longer than expected, but in the end, I had to result to my irresistible charm before he finally agreed. By the way, who's this Maverick Hacker guy? Is that his real name?" I brought the six-pack of Sam Adams Paul and I had picked up on our way back from the base into view. "Beer?" I asked, swinging my handbag's straps up and onto my opposite shoulder.

They each took a bottle, as did I, and drank thirstily. I had already opened the bottles previously, giving them the go ahead to drink right away. I guzzled mine greedily and cherished the feel of the cool liquid against my throat. There really was nothing better than being completely trashed. The only thing stopping me was the morning after. Plus, I was on a mission. There was no time for funny business.

After taking a violent swig of his beer and ignoring my question, Vince took a hand to his mouth and wiped the excess liquid off his lips. "I hope you didn't do anything you wouldn't have if I were present, Suze."

I smirked and flipped a bit of my hair back. As soon as my mouth contorted into the shape of the first letter of the first word in my witty comeback, the sound of car tires screeching against the macadam hit our eardrums. My head wildly snapped into the direction of where the sound had come from, low and behold, showing me a Cadillac Escalade coming at the three of us faster than a speeding bullet. Jesse dropped his beer bottle, and it dropped to the ground, shattering into a million pieces.

Okay, so maybe there were only ten.

"Oh, _mierda_," Jesse muttered angrily as he dipped his head low and shook it in disbelief.

I was about to ask Jesse why he sounded so disheartened, but was once again interrupted by the halting screech of tires and the angered slam of a SUV's driver door. The person exiting the vehicle was a gorgeous Latin woman clad in a steely gray business suit along with a pair of heels so high they were almost dangerous. It appeared that at one time, her hair had been styled to perfection atop her head, but now, in its dark, wavy glory, it was blowing freely in the sea breeze that was passing by. The airstrip was right by the Atlantic.

"_Idiota!_" she shrieked her sunglasses covering her angered eyes; the silver hoops in her ears shimmered in the sun's rays. A look of panic flitted across Jesse's, now pale, face. He swallowed his fear and made his way towards the enraged woman. She looked familiar, and yet, I still couldn't place where I had seen her before.

"Mercedes, _miel_," Jesse beamed, the smile plastered on his face obviously covering his raw panic. Nonetheless, he held his arms open wide and continued to make his way towards this 'Mercedes' woman. "I—"

Mercedes whacked his arms away from her and spat, her Spanish accent thick with fury "Don't you '_miel_' me, _compinche_! Do you think I am stupid, _Hector_? Did you think I wouldn't _notice_ that you were not there this morning when I turned over in bed, eager to make love with you before I had to leave for another torturous day at work?"

I cocked an eyebrow and exchanged glances with Vince. He was apparently thinking the same thing I was. To summarize the thought, it was pretty much: wow, we should not be hearing this. Although, I did happen to notice that, like myself, Vince was also having difficulties suppressing an amused look on his face. He looked so cute with that little knowing grin of his.

However, this last remark had put things into perspective nicely. There was only one woman I knew who talked like that, and that was Mercedes Cortez de Silva. Jesse's wife . . . if you didn't get it the, uh, first time.

From what I could remember, Mercedes was an executive studio manager for the game company Rockstar Games. She had earned a lot of respect, and was one of the few leading females in one of the largest gaming companies around. Jesse and she had met each other in Europe on some sort of weird business trip for each party. I had never seen the woman in person, but in a Christmas card from the two (the three guys never talked to each other after my dad's death, but they exchanged Christmas cards . . . weird), they had sent a photograph. Mercedes was totally different in person than she was in the photograph. I felt a little low seeing as how she was just so radiant.

Anyway, the two of them were approaching their twelve year anniversary if I could recall. We were newlyweds compared to those two. Jesse must have done something horrible to deserve this kind of verbal abuse. Then again, Mercedes seemed like the type of person who was as passionate when she was happy as she was when she was angry.

"Mercedes," Jesse tried to coax once again in a silky voice, "I was going to tell you—"

"When?" Mercedes interrupted fiercely. "When were you going to tell me you were _leaving_ me? When you were hovering over the Atlantic in that _estúpido _plane of yours? That hurts, Jesse. That hurts very much."

Jesse abruptly stopped any movement, and looked at her sternly. "Leave you? _Mi amor_, I would never leave you. I'm just leaving you temporarily to—"

"_Híbrido_!" Mercedes hissed, bringing her arm back, and fully thwacking Jesse across the face. I mean, even **I** flinched at the sound of her hand coming in direct contact with Jesse's cheek. This was one feisty lady. She continued by saying angrily, but by now, what wasn't angry? "So after I dedicate twelve years to our marriage, to our relationship, to YOU, you just gather your things and—"

It was at about this time that Mercedes had torn her enraged gaze away from Jesse and had taken in the rest of her surroundings. Her speech had ceased when she had laid her eyes on me. Her physical appearance had as well. She was no longer scowling, but instead, she was smiling, with her arms up in the air in a fit of joy. A fan, maybe?

"_Hola_, Susannah, _miel_!" she squealed happily, coming at me with open arms, and the continuous _clip-clip_ of her stilettos. I wouldn't call what she did a run, but it was still very impressive seeing as how it took me years to be able to walk in heels without hurting myself, let alone falling. There was an experience in the eighth grade where I tripped up the stage steps during the production of "_Oklahoma!_". I don't discuss it much.

(TG/N: Author is strangely silent)

When she finally reached me and nearly had me strangled in her passionate grip, she continued, "I know we have never met face to face, and I know that the only time we have corresponded, I guess you could say, is through silly Christmas greetings, but I am an _enorme_ fan of yours! I forget where it was, maybe a _Glamour_ issue, but I saw an absolutely _magnífico_ pair of pale cerulean espadrilles that I just had to have. I have been a huge fan ever since, keeping track of your new designs and such. And I must say: that halter is so cute, _miel_!"

Taken aback only slightly, I regained my composure and reciprocated the act of friendship. I had a feeling I was going to like this woman very much. Not only because she was a fan, but in the way she acted towards me, I felt like we had been friends for years. I smiled despite myself and said, "Well, thanks, Mercedes. I can't believe we've never actually talked face to face because I've been dying to meet you. You're so friendly."

She released me and laughed heartily. "Ah, you Americans lie so tastefully," she mused happily. She ran her fingers through her hair and puffed it out dramatically. "But I fear I must apologize for the way I conducted myself just minutes ago." With a roll of her eyes, she continued, "It's just that Hector can get me so angry sometimes. This being one of them. I just cannot believe that he would leave and not explain to me where he is going . . . or who he is seeing," she added sadly.

Before Jesse or I could explain to Mercedes that she had it all wrong, she was back to being chipper once more. Besides, she had also spotted Vince. This usually puts me in a good mood, so I knew where she was coming from. "Oh, I'm so sorry. This flustered state of mind has affected my head, I think. I'm Mercedes de Silva, soon to be Cortez once again.—" She held her hand out in a friendly manner. "—You must be Susannah's beau, correct?"

Vince smiled politely and took her hand in his, shaking it firmly. "That I am, ma'am," he explained politely. "Vince Luxmoore's the name."

"He's adorable, Susannah!" Mercedes beamed. Vince flushed and agitatedly ran his fingers through his hair. He had never liked being fawned over, nor did he like excessive praise. He had made certain that every copy of _Time_ magazine's "Ten Most Influential People in Science" issue had been burned or thrown out of the house. He was as surprised as I was when Dr. Vincent Luxmoore was listed as number two on the list. Right below, ironically, my father. It wasn't even the fact that _Time_ had used one of the sexiest photos of Vince ever in the article (little does he know I've kept one copy in my dresser) that had him embarrassed. It was the fact that they had commented roughly, 'He works as well with science as he does with women.'

Well, maybe he was more surprised than I was. Anyone born with an ass like his is destined to succeed. Those of you who have never seen it have missed the party of a lifetime.

Mercedes shook Vince's hand once more and said politely, "It was really nice meeting you. Both of you," she corrected as she turned to me and gave me another gut busting hug. She then marched over to Jesse and grabbed his arm, pulling him in the opposite direction of where we were standing. "If you'll excuse us," she explained, "Hector and I have some things to discuss."

Having gotten over the initial shock of Mercedes de Silva, and as soon as she was out of earshot, I turned towards Vince and asked, "So who's this 'Maverick Hacker' guy. Or 'The Master' as you so fondly put it? You never told me earlier when I asked."

Vince had, by this time, finished his beer, and was now loading some of the luggage into the storage compartment of the plane. Heaving one of my bags on his shoulders, he grunted, sounding very strained, "You'll—find out soon e—nough." Trunk in the plane he turned towards me and asked quizzically, "Damn it, woman. What did you pack?"

I ignored his remark and leaned up against the plane, picking absently at one of my freshly painted nails. Although, why bother? I'll be in the middle of nowhere soon enough. "What?" I snorted. "Is it some big secret?" Thinking it over a minute, I added, "He's not wanted for a federal offense, is he?"

Vince hauled the last bag into the compartment, and slammed the flap shut. As he made his way towards me, I noticed he was wearing that smirk of his that only manages to make its appearance when I'm involved and have done something amusing. Seeing as how I had only asked a question, I found it a bit strange. However, when has Vincent Luxmoore ever been normal?

Caging me between his arms; his hands against the plane on either side of my head, Vince smirked in amusement. "Not exactly, but he'd fit in pretty well if he was, wouldn't he?" Noticing that I wasn't exactly joking with him, his tone became serious, and he asked, "Since when have you become Ms. Nancy Drew?"

I lifted my head so my gaze was in direct line with his navy blues and asked, "Since when has it been like the Spanish Inquisition just trying to talk to you?"

Vince only rolled his eyes, and moved a step closer to where he had me pinioned between his arms. "Don't compare the situation to something so tragic. Think of something more pleasant—" He brushed his knee against my thigh. "—like sex."

I snorted, and exhaled raggedly. He could be such a guy sometimes. "Would let me go, please?" I asked, tapping my pink heel agitatedly. "In case you haven't come to grasp with reality, I still stand by what I said last night. I can only take so much of playing second fiddle to two men. Sometimes your _spouse_ should come first."

He grinned playfully and lifted one of my hands to his lips, kissing it softly. "I have always come to you first for love making. Know that, darlin'."

I crinkled my nose, and despite myself, I grinned. Playfully, I thwacked him one on the shoulders. "Bastard," I muttered, beginning to laugh lightly. "Now seriously, let me go."

Vince glanced around once or twice before finally saying, "I can't do that _now_." He smiled widely, and moved in so he was right on top of me. "It seems that Optimus Prime has awoken from his slumber just in time to get a little justice-y action."

I gawked up at Vince and screeched hysterically, "Oh, my God! You named your penis after a _Transf_—"

But before I could even finish, Vince laughed heartily, and swallowed my words with a spellbinding kiss. And even though I was completely appalled and amused that he had named his manhood after a Transformer of all things, I couldn't resist kissing those lips back.

It didn't last long though. As soon as we heard what sounded like a sick vehicle drive up the landing field towards where we were standing, Vince lifted his hands away and turned to see where the sound was coming from. See, he has this thing against PDA that really can be quite a bother. But I respect him for it.

The vehicle approaching us was a military issued Hum-vee, camouflage and all. It parked not too far away from Vince and me, and coughed up two men that began walking towards where we were standing. Having also heard the commotion, Jesse and Mercedes came waltzing towards us, arm in arm. Apparently, they had resolved whatever issue had existed.

"Jack!" Vince boomed as the two military personnel were finally close enough to determine facial and other physical features more clearly. The two guys embraced each other and did that weird back slapping thing again. "I haven't seen you since high school graduation," Vince reminisced, his smile reaching from ear to ear. "You son of a gun, what'd we used to call you way back when? I can't remember."

Jack ran a hand through what was left of his hair and laughed nervously. "Vince, I'd rather we not discuss this," he said firmly, motioning for his partner to come join him.

"A nickname I've not heard of?" I asked curiously. My lips contorted into their trademark pout. "Jack, you've been keeping me out of the loop. Do tell."

But I never got the information I was searching for. Vince merely grasped my hand in his and said, "It's not for little ladies' ears." He smirked at Jesse. Jesse smirked at him. And Jack just looked embarrassed. I glanced at Vince strangely. "What am I, twelve?" I asked in annoyance. "Tell me."

However, once again, my attempts were fruitless. They ignored me and began to chat amongst themselves. I leaned against the hum-vee we had eventually gravitated towards. It was at that precise moment in time that Mercedes proclaimed, mournfully, that she had to depart to make sure Gabriela, their youngest daughter, was doing okay. Apparently, she had gotten very sick, and was at home with a box of Chips ahoy, and _Scrubs_ season one. Something I wish I were doing as well. Then again, at this hour in the day, I'd probably be dealing with Kate Moss and her issues with addiction instead of lying around at home with a bag of cookies. You see, despite General Holdren's preconceived notions about me, my job requires great amounts of skill in many areas, including psychology. You have no idea how insecure models are!

Interrupting my inane train of thought, Jack's post pubescent voice filtered through my ear canals. "Vince, Jesse, Suze, I'd like to introduce you to Major Charles O'Neil," he said buoyantly, slapping the green bereted man on the back for emphasis. "He's my superior and best friend. I trust this guy with my life. Though, I gotta warn you, he can be quite the juh-jerk."

"You flatter me too much, Lieutenant," Charles beamed; his good-natured smile was almost contagious.

The Major looked to be an even six feet tall and a hefty two hundred ten pounds. He was large, but not flabby. Wrinkles invaded both his bronzed face and hands, and the footprints of war left their mark in the form of two scars. One scar looked as if he had taken a bayonet slash across the chin, while the other was a vertical line starting above his right eyebrow and ending about mid-cheek. Though nothing about the Major's appearance shouted "cute 'n' cuddly," something in the way he smiled told you that he was a trustworthy ally.

Judging by the amount of wrinkles Major O'Neil had come to acquire, one would estimate that he was well past his prime and heading towards the centennial mark. Though both his scraggly, bushy black eyebrows and mustache were graying rapidly, almost to the point of no pigment at all, and his, assumedly, once black hair was now snowy white, with bursts of gray splaying back near his temples, the Major Charles O'Neil was only a healthy seventy-seven.

However, as I recalled, that was way too old to still be doing time with the reserves, let alone the marines.

"Major O'N—"

"Please," O'Neil interrupted, "call me Charlie, Miss. Major O'Neil is too formal for a pretty young thing like yourself to be referring to me as. And I didn't quite catch your name. Which one was it again?"

"I'm Suze Simon," I answered in a dazed manner. Hadn't Jack just said our names? Maybe "Charlie" wasn't as capable as Jack thought he was. "I—I mean Suze Luxmoore," I reiterated after receiving a 'gentle' nudge from Vince. He's so intolerably conservative like that.

"Ah, so you're Suze then," Charlie mulled, retrieving the pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his uniform jacket, taking one, and lighting up. "Can't be too sure nowadays, what with all those 'twenty-first century' names. Dumbass parents can't seem to differentiate between male and female titles anymore. See, if it were me, I'd've said you were 'Jessie', but you can't say that aloud anymore because of that equal opportunity, civil right bullshit. Don't want to offend any of them jobless pricks using my money for welfare or anything."

Although none of us were "jobless pricks" that I knew of, I was pretty certain Jesse looked might offended. Then again, his masculinity had been questioned, so he had every right to be. The rest of us weren't so much offended as we were shocked that the Major had such a foul mouth. Usually, you don't expect someone who just referred to you as a "pretty, young thing" to later spit out obscenities.

We refer to this as irony, class.

"Suze," Charlie mused after the massive plume of smoke dissipated from in front of his mug. I managed not to cough, but my eyes stung and watered something fierce. "'S that short for Susan?"

"No. It's short for Susannah," I corrected.

Charlie inhaled another puff of smoke. "Ah, Susannah then. That's a new one." Unexpectedly, the Major's eyes glazed over as if in blissful nostalgia. "I'll remember that one because I used to date a Susan before. She was quite a gal." Before any of us could question any further, or, for that matter, correct him that my name was not Susan, but Susannah, the glazed look past, and he shook his head to rid of such silliness. "Well, Miss Suzie, what was it you had wanted to say?"

I didn't have the heart or the courage to tell the Major that no one with the exception of my mom had called me Suzie and lived to tell the tale. As if on cue, the stifled giggles began, but I chose to merely ignore them and instead answer the Major's inquiry.

"Well, uh, Charlie, I mean no disrespect," I started, stumbling over my words like a child over his feet the first time he walks, "but wouldn't a man of your experience be, um . . ."

Charlie laughed loudly, and, in the process, choked on some inhaled smoke. "Ah, Miss Suzie," he said, still laughing at his inside joke, "you amuse me deeply. Your politeness is noted. You want to know why a decrepit, old bastard like me hasn't gotten the heave-ho from the marines."

I cringed, "More or less."

Before answering, he exhaled, the smoke flowing out of his mouth like a waterfall into the larger body of water. "To be perfectly honest, they can't get rid of me. I'm in top physical condition, and can pass every last test they throw my way. Plus, I have no health conditions to speak of, excluding the fact that I've smoked for about the last sixty years." He flicked the cigarette butt to the ground and snubbed it with the toe of his boot. "Oh," he continued, "believe me. They've been trying to lose my sorry ass for years by refusing to up my rank to general. But I don't give up so easily. I will earn what's rightfully mine, damn it."

The look on Jack's face almost mirrored that of his good friend's. I had no idea how the two had come to be friends. Jack was so shy and charming, and Charlie . . . well, he was none of those things. However, despite their differences, there was a deep, unseen trust and respect between the two men. I bet there were a few entertaining stories Jack and Charlie shared. Not that we'd have time for them. It wasn't as if we'd all be sitting around a campfire toasting marshmallows and singing Irish folk ballads. Please. As soon as Paul got my dad's location, we'd be in, out, and I wouldn't have to cancel my meeting with Betsey after all. Which brought me to my next point:

Where _was_ Paul?

Jack patted Charlie on the back sympathetically. "Don't worry, bud," he reassured his friend, "you'll get what's yours."

"Yeah, yeah," Charlie grunted. "Anyway—" He grinned sadistically, showing a few missing teeth. "—show them the surprise."

I stopped in my thought track. "Wh—what surprise?" My eyes widened. "It's nothing illegal, is it? Like a break in trip to Area 51?"

Slater Jr. gave me an annoyed look. "I've been to Area 51. It's not that great."

"You've actually been _inside_ Area 51?" Vince asked; his eyes alight with awe and unbelief. "I mean, not just past the fence, but you've actually been _inside_ the huge garage structures and the office buildings?"

Jack smirked evilly at his childhood tormenter. "Relax, Lucky. It's only an airbase facility where they test out new designs. Can't give much more away, or I'd be shot."

"Liar," Vince snarled, glaring at the guy who had just crushed his lifelong fantasy. He had always strongly held onto the belief that aliens were the huge cover up at the secretive airbase in the deserts of Arizona. Tough luck.

I rolled my eyes. "Get over it. So anyway, what's the surprise? And is it illegal?"

"Lieutenant," Charlie offered, smiling, "if you'd be so kind as to lead this cavalry forward."

"Nothing would please me more. Follow me," Jack instructed.

As we walked towards our destination, one couldn't help but notice that Jack Slater had acquired the same arrogant swagger of his older brother. Hopefully, it was only because he was psyched about what he was about to unveil. But there was no denying it. Jack had become what he despised: Paul Slater II.

As it turned out, we didn't have to walk far which was good because my feet were killing me. What the two marine officers had presumably wanted to show us was located right in the trunk of the hum-vee. At first, I was confused. The only think in the trunk right after Major O'Neil opened it was a completely empty space excluding a canvas sack which snapped shut right below the headrests of the rear seats. Before I could express a single ounce of my confused state, Jack scrambled into the trunk and unsnapped the canvas roll up sack. Even more curious at the sound of the contents of the sack clacking ominously against each other, and the rest of my party's gasps and exclamations, I stood up on my tip toes so I could see past Jack's broad shoulders. I clasped my hand to my mouth to hush any sound that should exit my mouth because the sight before me would have pleased the former president George W. Bush immensely. Would've pleased _Grand Theft Auto_ fans too, I guess.

Weapons of all shapes and sizes—handguns, rifles, machine guns, grenades, and various knives—were all aligned perfectly in the canvas sack like some sort of sick and twisted holiday display. Santa's soldiers seemed appropriate.

Or maybe Santa's Mercenaries was more fitting.

Miscellaneous doodads were strewn about in their appropriate homes. The looked more like tools for bungee jumping than tools of self defense. One of the bulkier guns looked like—

"Is that a _rocket launcher_?" I blurted, unable to keep my eyes off the arsenal in the back of the hum-vee. I couldn't believe was I was seeing. We were going to South America, not the front lines of Armageddon.

Jack's smile wavered, though the glint in his eyes never flickered, and he said smartly, "No, _Suze_. That would be a grenade launcher, just one of the beauties we've managed to procure for this expedition. Besides, rocket launchers are illegal to citizens, and furthermore, they are unethical . . . during times of peace."

"Illegal?" I asked, numb with incredulity. "I'm pretty certain that stealing the entire arsenal of the United States Marine Corp is pretty damn illegal in itself, is it not! Are you two crazy? We are going to another _continent_ and therefore cannot bring these with us. We'll be executed, or even worse, taken hostage."

Charlie managed to laugh and keep his cigarette in his mouth. A wisp of smoke exited his nostrils. "Miss Suzie, I like your enthusiasm. I like it a lot. And I'm flattered that you think that Slater and I were capable of stripping the entire marine division of all fire arms. But the truth is, these arms are our personal stash, so not a word of this gets out because we're not to take them away from the base camp. Got it?" We all shook our heads fervently. "Besides," he continued, "this is merely a . . . security blanket to protect ourselves from those sons of bitches. Can't go anywhere anymore because you're American, and those f—in' commies are everywhere."

As things tended to do after the Major's speeches, we all sort of became silent and awkwardly shuffled our feet in the loose gravel like those annoying kids whose young, incapable parents let them kick the loose stones at carnivals and unpaved parking lots.

"Is that a double bladed scythe?" Jesse asked quietly from his little space behind me.

Still appalled by the situation, I turned towards the Latin heartthrob and accused, "I can't believe you're actually approving of this, Jesse! We are going to find my father, not fight some—"

"Never hurts to be prepared, darlin'," Vince interrupted, wrapping an arm around me. Although the gesture sounded as if he were being reassuring, there was no mistaking the ecstatic twinkle in his deep, dark-blue eyes. He couldn't wait to get his hands on one of those machine guns and pretend he was G.I. Joe. I knew him too well to think differently. "What else have you got in there?" he asked, ignoring the roll of my eyes.

"Well, let me see," Jack wondered aloud, once again taking his part as tour guide once again. He began pointing to each weapon as he named it, mostly for my sake. "We've got some M4 Carbines, SMG's, AK-47's, M-16's, Desert Eagles, a few Colt .45 semi-automatics, a handful of M2 grenades, knives, a single-bladed machete, Jesse, some sniper rifles just in case, sniper attachments, single shot rifles, shotguns, and a flamethrower just in case."

"Let's distribute these beauties, Jackie boy," Charlie commanded, once again stubbing his cigarette butt out and throwing it to the wind. "Hand 'em to me, son, as I call them out. Alright, let's see . . ."

Major O'Neil took his beret off, and ran his fingers through his greasy looking hair, letting the sun hit his face. After a moment, he gestured for Jack to hand him the machete. "To the enthusiast, I'll give you the machete. Your kind is used to these kinds of weapons anyway. _Zorro _and all." He handed the large knife to Jesse, and he took it without complaining about the obviously racial comment. "I'll take the flat blade then. It's my favorite." Jack handed it to him, and he slid it into its sheath on the back of his belt.

The next weapon he pointed to looked like your average gun, just a bit shorter. He took two of these. "For the lady, a Colt .45 semi-automatic," Charlie explained as he tossed it in my direction. The gun touched my hands, but I couldn't quite get a firm grasp on the thing, so it clattered to the ground. Charlie smiled. "Lucky for you, Suzie, it's shock resistant. And here's one for you, Don Quixote. Some situations call for more force in a condensed time period. It's times like these you gotta cherish your side arm. Oh, and, Jack, toss the Luger my way. You know I go nowhere where without it."

Vince frowned a moment and stroked his newly shaved chin in thought. He had this weird compulsion where he had to shave everyday. He never explained why he does it, and I've never really pressed the issue. But dwelling on it, that is pretty eccentric. Then again, maybe he's just one of those guys who just likes to shave. Although, I must admit, there is absolutely nothing wrong with a five o'clock shadow.

"Wait a minute," Vince interrupted, "I know that a Luger is a German weapon. Now, unless you're committing an act of treason, that weapon can't be yours or at least part of your arsenal that you're given. Unless . . . of course, you stole it."

"Technically, you _could_ call it stealing, but in actuality, I won it," Charlie explained. He glanced almost lovingly at the Luger before placing it in its holster.

I snorted. "You won it? Who was in charge of _that_ contest? Don Corleone?"

The Major laughed heartily in a way that made you feel comfortable. "That's clever, Miss Suzie," he grinned, squinting his eyes to clock the sun. "I like you. I like you a lot."

I smiled and flipped my hair pointedly. "Hmm!" I quirked my head to the side and directed my next comment towards Vince, "At least _somebody_ does." Vince visibly gave me the death glare.

"Anyway," Charlie continued, "I took it off the cadaver of the bastard who shot me in the groin during a hostage rescue at the Nazi HQ in Berlin during World War Two. I lost an entire testicle thanks to that schmuck. And it's not even like I can forget about the incident. There's this huge scar on the—"

"O—kay, Major," Jack blurted in the nick of time. He grabbed one of the sniper rifles and threw its strap over his shoulder. With the other hand, he picked up a machete for himself and Charlie, and three short, squat automatic rifles. He threw one Charlie's way, and threw the other one Jesse's way. "De Silva," he called, "hold onto one of these M4 Carbines for Paul." He paused and added what the rest of us were thinking, "Where _is_ he anyway?"

Jesse shook his head, and fixed his sunglasses so they were right against his forehead once more. "I do not know, but I'd better get the rest of our supplies loaded and get this plane started. We have a strict schedule to follow, _amigos_, and if we want to get there before night fall, we need to leave sooner rather than later. The jungle is a beautiful, but frightening place during the day, but come nightfall . . . the jungle no longer follows the guidelines of friendly conduct. Instead, it opens its strong jaw and sucks the life out of those who cross its threshold."

As the Latino pilot made his way towards our means of escape, a shiver meandered lightning fast through my body. Had any of us even taken into consideration what we would encounter in the depths of the Amazon? Sure, ammunition was the first step, the _wrong_ step, but there's pretty much nothing that can replace experience and knowledge of the surrounding jungle. I mean, who's to say that the first moment we touch down, a tribe of cannibals won't attack?

Was I having doubts? You bet. I had more doubts and fears now than that day on the plane from Brooklyn to Carmel. Was it worth it? If by some chance we found my father, and even if we didn't, all the expenses, the dangers, the risks: would they be worth it?

The answer came from so deep inside me; so deep inside my soul, if it still existed, that even I had to admit its sincerity.

_Yes._

This would be so worth it, and then some.

Jarring me from my intricate thoughts came Vince's calm, yet authoritative voice. "What about me, Major?" he asked, referring to, presumably, his unselected boy toy.

"Don't push me, Luxmoore. I may be old, but my memory is like that of an elephant," Charlie pointed out. He was busy wiping down his M4 with a rag spotted with grease and oil stains. "Besides, even if I forgot about you, I'd've thought about it eventually. Give me some credit, damn it!"

Vince looked flabbergasted and began fumbling over his words. "I—I meant no disrespect, sir."

"Of course you didn't," O'Neil grunted as he heaved what appeared to be a shotgun of some sort. "You're not that type of person, kid. Now here, take this and don't lose it. It's your standard type shotgun, as you probably already knew."

Ironically, instead of commenting on what he had just learned, Vince grimaced. "I haven't been called 'kid' for a long time now. I'm forty-two, you know."

Charlie beamed and began laughing his smoker's laugh as he thwacked Vince on the back. "Aw, shit, son! Once you get over fifty, everyone is a kid in comparison."

The two began to laugh even louder, and began discussing other things that I generally wouldn't have had any interest in whatsoever. Jack had begun to pack everything securely, so he could bring the canvas sack with us. The Atlantic looked gorgeous with the sun hitting just right, so it looked like a pool of Cartier diamonds. And even though everything seemed to be going smoothly, there was trouble ahead. Just as I had begun entertaining visions of grandeur (i.e. being on the beach adjacent to the Atlantic) a frantic cry was heard from the vicinity of the seaplane.

"_¡Oye, amigos!_" Jesse called from his position on the steps. "We've got trouble coming in quickly. According to Maverick, there are about four vehicles coming rapid fire towards our spot. We need to get in the plane and off the ground now!"

Before Jesse could reenter the plane, Vince yelled what I was thinking. "The Master's here? And in the plane, nonetheless?"

Jesse nodded and yelled back in reply, "Yes. He's as good as you said. He's even managed to hack into the street lights in town, and is trying to slow these cars down."

Vince smiled, "Tell him to keep up the good work. Start the engine, de Silva. We'll be there in a minute."

Jesse reentered the plane at top speed, and no more than seconds later, the propeller on the nose of the plane began to slowly rotate, picking up speed the longer it turned.

"You heard the son of a bitch, move out!" Charlie commanded, heaving his backpack onto his shoulders and taking off on a light sprint to the plane. The rest of us began to follow him except Jack. He had some unfinished business.

"Wait, what about Paul?" he asked, his supplies in place, and his expression worried.

"You better hope your brother gets here in the next five, or there won't be any Paul to worry about," Vince snarled, his face frowning angrily. "But we'll worry about that when it's closer down to the line. Right now, we need to get our asses on that plane, so that when your brother does decide to finally grace us with his presence, we can get the hell out of here. Come on!"

The whirring of the rotor blade became louder as the three of us continued to get closer to our destination. Little fragments of leaves and bits of loose gravel were disturbed from their resting place and forced out to the vast ocean. Jack accepted Charlie's help as he ascended the several steps leading to the entrance of the plane. I couldn't let myself in yet. Something was irking at my brain.

"You two lovebirds gonna make an entrance or what?" Charlie yelled, so he could be heard over the planes over sized engine.

I nodded, "We'll be in in a minute. There's one more member joining this party."

Charlie looked surprised, but then shook it off and looked once around. "Well, he better be here shortly. Those bastards are gaining quickly despite what that kid's doing."

He disappeared inside the plane allowing Vince and I to be alone. Vince prodded me knowingly with his eyes because he knew I had something to say. I swallowed my pride, and finally said, "I'm worried about those cars, Vince. Will we be able to get out of here on time? And will Paul get here on time?"

Vince grasped my shoulders and gently pulled me into him. With a comforting kiss on my forehead, he explained, "Suze, I swear on my mother's grave, I will not let anything happen to you, or anyone else on this trip. You have my word." He paused and smiled. "And if I know Paul, he'll be here on time."

"Thank you," I said, encasing one of his hands in mine. "I—"

A car came screeching to a halt, disturbing some of the wildlife nearby, and ultimately destroyed our moment. Before even looking, I squealed, "Shit! One of the cars is here already."

"Impossible," I heard a voice say, "according to my calculations, those cars aren't to reach this point for another seven minutes."

"Regardless," Jesse shouted in retort. "It is coming down to a thin line. Slater needs to get here now!"

Finally taking a glance at the vehicle, I muttered, "Your wish is our command."

"False alarm," Vince called back to the crew. "It's just Paul."

And Paul it was. But not like we knew him. He looked like hell, to put it frankly. His polo shirt was untucked and unbuttoned; his one pant leg was bunched behind the tongue of his loafer; his face was flushed red, as if he had just run a marathon; and his usually perfectly sculpted hair was now unruly and sticking out at odd angles. Either Paul was mauled by an animal, or something else had driven along his path.

"Where the hell were you?" Vince asked, motioning for him to come our way, and to do it speedy like. "And more importantly, did you get what we asked for?"

Paul, clearly out of breath, held his index finger up for one moment. He lifted his shirt's bottom, so he could reach into his pocket. I made note that Paul was no longer wearing a belt. There was definitely one on earlier. I had also noticed something else.

Holding his "Free from Abuse" card up, he said, "Have it right here in my hot, little hands."

Vince made a grab for the paper and smiled as he approved of its authenticity. Meanwhile, I was debating how I should have brought my next statement up. I had decided that straight forward was the best way.

"Damn," Vince clamed in away, unable to keep his gaze off of the paper. "How did you manage to get this?"

For the first time since he arrived, a smile broke out across his attractive face. "I have my ways, Lucky."

Before anyone else could say anything, I blurted, "Paul, your, uh . . . fly is open."

Paul looked at me in confusion. "What?"

I sighed. "X-Y-Z. Examine your zipper?"

"Oh. Right." And it was while the grin appeared on his face as he pulled his zipper up that I put two and two together, revealing one disturbing outcome.

"You didn't!" I cried, looking for some sign of denial. Hell, ANY sign of denial. None came. "You did!"

Paul smiled even more, if that was possible, while Vince, in a dazed confusion, still stared. It wasn't until realization dawned that Vince began laughing.

"You son of a bitch! It never fails," he said shaking his head, and heading towards the plane entrance.

"What can I say?" Paul asked innocently. "I'm juh—"

But we never got to here what Paul was because at that moment, a bullet zinged past his head, denting the metal. Instantaneously, we all spun around in the direction of where the bullet had come from, and sure enough, the four other cars were parked, blocking the entrance. They weren't just any cars either. They were unmarked, black FBI SUVs. Two of the guys outside of the cars had guns, one had a megaphone.

"This is the FBI," the guy with the megaphone stated the obvious. "Step away from the plane, and drop all weapons. NOW!"

My heart beating in my throat, I did the only thing I could think to do in the situation given.

"Jesse! Get us off the ground!"

Everything seemed to happen so fast, and in a blur. The three of us were in that plane faster than either of us had ever moved in our entire lives. Vince issued the command for Jesse to move, and like a good pilot, he listened. Paul instructed the rest of us to duck, which we did willingly, well, except for Charlie who didn't listen to anyone.

Just as we passed the edge of the airstrip, a torrent of submachine gun missiles pelted our way. _Chink_ after _chink_ reverberated off the steel hull, none damaging anything important thanks to Jesse's mad piloting skills. Still, if you've never been shot at before, it's scary as hell.

Charlie, who had played it pretty cool up until then, was now on a bench seat underneath one of the windows setting up one of the more dangerous machine guns.

"What are you doing?" I shrieked trying to keep my head as low as possible. "You can't shoot at government employees."

"Watch me, dearheart," he spat, snarling angrily. "I've been waiting my whole life to do this, and your concern ain't gonna stop me now." And with that, he let loose a whole shower of bullets. After a few rounds, one of the SUVs blew up, and the firing ceased. None of us could really believe our eyes.

"Look what you did!" I cried in absolute shock. "I can't believe what you did!"

Charlie disassembled his machine gun and said calmly. "Relax, Suzie. There's nothing to worry about. Take a drink."

He tossed his little bottle of vodka my way. For once, not worrying about germs and such, I spun the cap off, and took a huge swig.

**+SS+**

"What's our position, Pilot?" Charlie asked, taking position right next to our leader at the moment. It seemed that that's how it always was for Charlie. He always was second best no matter how hard he tried.

"Give me a moment, Major," Jesse said, his hands gliding over the control panel gracefully. "I have to load up the GPS."

When Jesse touched the GPS button, a red light started to flash, and an obnoxious alarm began to blare piercingly, making the commotion most noticeable to all who were aboard the flying machine. Flashing lights of all kind began to blink simultaneously, and the plane began to bunk.

"What did you do now, Jesse?" Vince asked very calmly for someone who, like the rest of us, believed Jesse had done something very, very wrong.

In a panic, Jesse had begun roving his eyes over every thing he could see, trying to get a sense of where the problem was coming from. "I—I don't know, Lucky. Let me check the gauges. . . . Altimeter, check. Speedometer, check. Height, check. Fuel gauge . . ."

"What's up with the fuel gauge?" Paul asked, the features on his face not exactly contorted into an expression that gave the others hope.

Jesse didn't have to answer, because I too leaned over the surrounding crowd and noticed that the point was pointing directly at 'E' on the fuel gauge. Immediately, we ran to the windows on opposite sides of the plane, trying to see if we could spot the problem. It was Vince who spotted it first.

"Looks like guys shot our fuel tank," he explained; his voice a little more nervous and ragged than usual. "Apparently, it's been leaking out behind us since we left the airfield. Kind of like some sort of sick, twisted Hansel and Gretel breadcrumb trail."

"Oh, my God! Do you know how many fish and other aquatic life are dead by now?" I asked, not really knowing how to handle the situation otherwise.

Jesse glared at me in disbelief. "Fish? Susannah, do you know how many people are _going_ to be dead in HERE soon? We've got to patch that hole up somehow. Suggestions?"

The fuel tank erupted, igniting the left wing of the plane, causing the plane to bunk side to side, before it finally began to plunge. I guess the good news was that we weren't going to die in the ocean.

"_Nombre de Dios!_" Jesse cried. He immediately stopped what he was doing, and kneeled to the floor, chanting Catholic prayers, and thumbing his rosary.

"Well," Charlie said over the constant alarms, "at least I'll die knowing that I've died among friends. Take me home, Lord."

Vince and I just sort of held onto each other, not really knowing what to say, or what to do. I didn't know about him, but I thought I could just about have died; my heart was beating so fast. Who would have guessed that Suze Simon would have died in an airplane crash?

Paul took a seat on one of the window benches and called, "Hey, Suze?" I looked over his way. He winked and stated, "I would have rocked your world."

Before I could even think about how to reply to that, Jack, letting the situation sink in, was now frantically running around. "My, God! Our plane is going to crash!"

And the last thing I remember were the faces of loved ones.

And, of course, Paul.

* * *

Had a little spare time. :) Forgive the foul language.

The General


	5. No Signal

When I was twelve, my parents got tired of the numerous ear infections I had come to accumulate over the years. It wasn't that they were angry with me, it was just that the point had come to be when I was getting one each month. So, a meeting with the allergist was put together, and the solution was to remove my adenoids. My mom fought to get the tonsils out as well. Apparently, she wanted away with anything that could be related to my reoccurring problem.

I can still remember the morning of the surgery like it was yesterday. The doctors had requested that I get up eight _years_ before I had to actually be at the hospital. So there I was, at age twelve, getting up with the moon and the bats. I was scared about the surgery, but I was excited about the outcome. And pain? How bad could it be?

Dad was still at home going over lesson plans for the day, and packing for his upcoming trip to Zimbabwe with his clan of over achievers, as mom and I had loaded into the '78 Volkswagen Rabbit, and drove to the hospital.

It was really creepy being at the hospital in complete darkness. Nobody was around, and we had to be let in and escorted to our division by a security guard who looked about as happy as I was to be up at that ungodly hour. When we finally arrived, the security guard bid us farewell and good luck to me, leaving us with the doctor. Being as nice as possible, the ENT whisked me away from my mother and led me down the eerie, lonesome hallway that would lead to the final moment of Demarcation Day (or as I so wittily referred to it: T and A Day).

As I lay on the operation table with a mask that was pumping anesthetic into my system, the surgeon asked me all these questions, pretending to be interested. Apparently, after he asked me about my family and pets, I began to drift into sleepy drive.

To make a long story short (too late), without my prior knowledge, I woke up in what I could only assume was the recuperating room. My head was all disoriented, and I couldn't recollect what happened between what I last remembered to then. On a smaller note, as soon as my mom and dad entered, I cried hysterically, but that's beside the point.

There is nothing scarier in this world than that feeling of being completely disoriented, and then on top of that, to wake up in a strange surrounding. As a human being, or homo sapien as I like to call us, we like to have that power of control. This need for domination can be contributed to why the dark scares us so much, or a fear of losing one of our senses. The feeling of disorientation is an uncomfortable and disconcerting experience. Especially for a control freak like me.

And, once again, I found myself experiencing the sensation to a tee. However, as bad situations tend to do, they find some way to make themselves even worse. Not only had I no recollection of what had just happened, but the surrounding space was completely devoid of light, save for a weak sliver poking through a tiny hole in what I assumed was the ceiling of wherever I was. That sense of a slight adrenaline rush came rushing in, as if on cue, right on time.

Where was I?

My first train of thought led to the conclusion that I was dead. I mean, everything seemed to fall into that description. The only damper to the conclusion was that the longer I dwelled on what my current situation could be, pain began to slowly ebb into every single damn part of my body it could. For some reason, I had always pictured that death would rid me of any feeling at all. I would just be my soul living wherever we souls go to live.

My head began to throb agonizingly, my legs, in their awkward position, were showing the first deadly signs of being very asleep. And before I go any further, may I just include that when any part of your body falls asleep, it is so, so, so painful? I think it's even worse than childbirth. Not that I know from experience, but judging from the pain I go through as my limbs decide to go out on me, it can't be that far away from popping a germinated seed out of your birth canal.

With a quick examination of my face, for no other reason than I was trying to disprove my "death" theory, my fingers touched something that had the texture of semi-dried glue. Like, when it's in its congealed state. Having never been one to really like weird feeling things, I was feeling a little anxious now. Not only did I have no recollection of where I could possibly be, but there could have been some weird something or other on my forehead. My next plan was to get myself out of where I was, however, upon trying to move, I found that my left leg was stuck under something extremely heavy. Actually, my leg was in tremendous pain, now that I mentioned it.

Gritting my teeth, and breathing in strained, tense breaths, I tried to ignore the spurts of pain swimming up my leg. With as much gusto as I could muster, I called out to anyone who could hear me.

"Anyone!" I called in my raspy, foreign sounding, even to me, voice. My breathing was slower and harder to do. "Help! I'm stuck, and I have no idea where I am!" I rethought the situation and added, "Uh . . . _¿Habla ingles? Por favor! _Uh . . . _Parlez-vous anglais? S'il vous plaît?_"

With abated breath, I waited. And I waited. And I waited. But as pretty sure as I was that I was going to die here, young and virginless, I was certain that sound waves had not penetrated the silence. It was at about this time, that the unabridged sense of fear began to lodge itself in my senses. With my heart in my throat, I began to wonder if there was even this slight possibility that I was not getting out of this place, wherever it was, alive. This thought put me into a fit of hysteria, although, it was a dignified sort of hysteria.

Through my fit, I thought I had heard a noise in the distance, almost the sound of speech. With my entire being, I strained my ears to listen even harder. Sure enough, I heard the faint sound again.

"Help!" I called out again, my voice strained even more than it was awhile ago. If I didn't get out of their soon, I would die of suffocation. And of this, I was certain. "HELP!" I called out again. "I'm stuck, and I'm having trouble breathing!"

Placing a hand on my chest, I tried to control my breathing. Realizing that I was either going to die of suffocation or starvation hadn't exactly helped the process in any shape, way, or form. Heart thumping in my chest against my rib cage, I tried pounding on the piece of metal above my head as a last resort. Careful though I was not to exhaust myself, I got no reaction.

That was it. I was going to die without dignity, without saying goodbye, without finding my father, if he even was alive, and without a decent song in my head. I was going to die with Journey in my head. The band is decent enough, but do you want to kick the bucket with, "Just a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit. He took the midnight train going ANNNNNYWHERE!" going through your head? I don't think so.

Then again, I'd take Journey over Enrique any day. "I Can Be Your Hero" isn't exactly the desired way to go either.

However, just as I had given up hope, I had clearly heard once again a voice, but this time, I could hear what they were saying.

"Suze? Suze? Can you hear us? Yell back if you can."

Though I could hear it relatively clearly, I couldn't tell who was talking, but did it matter? They were speaking English, and clearly wanted to help me. Beggars can't be choosers. And right now, I was begging for life, and for Journey to shut the hell up.

The only problem I was having was making my voice loud. It was hoarse from all the other screaming I had done, and also from the lack of oxygen. My chest was like collapsing into itself. But I was a fighter, and I was not going to let my lack of oxygen be the death of me.

"HELP!" I screamed as loud as I was able. "I'm under something, and my leg is stuck! Please help me!" For good measure, I used what energy I had left to slam my fists on the sheet metal above me for what would probably be the last time. Or, at least, hopefully.

After what seemed like hours, I began to hear some grunts coming from the outside of my coffin. Grunts combined with moans, and the outcome was the piece of metal above me began to slowly lift up. Actual sunlight was filtering into my tomb like water did to the _Titanic_ as it took its last breath.

With a final creak, the metal was heaved away from the tomb, and I was temporarily blinded by the sweet, sweet rays of the star we call 'sun'. At a quick glance down at my legs, the one stuck was losing probably more blood than it should have been.

"Lucky, Paul, we found her!" someone had said. I couldn't realize who it was due to my head being sort of woozy, and my senses jarred. Whoever it was had taken to securing their arms underneath mine, and began to pull me out of my crypt.

"WHOA," I barked, gritting my teeth at the excess pain he was causing. I knew that much that my 'rescuer' was a male. "My leg is stuck under something, and unless you'd like me to be a paraplegic, I suggest you quit tugging."

"Let her go, Lieutenant," Charlie commanded, as he came running towards our situation. At least, I thought it was him. "What're you tryin' to do? Kill her?"

"Sorry, Major," Jack breathed out, dropping his grasp on me as if I were hot, molten lead.

"Mistakes take lives, soldier," Charlie spat in an authoritative, yet fatherly manner. "What seems to be the situation, Suzie? Talk to me. It's Charlie."

Without realizing it, I had tried to move my leg and grunted out in pain. "It's my leg, Charlie," I said between gritted teeth. "It's stuck under that piece of metal, and it hurts to move it. You guys have to get me out of here. It's like being stuck in an open end sarcophagus."

Charlie took command, giving orders and calming my frazzled nerves. "Relax, Suzie, and take deep breaths," he coaxed. "We're not gonna lose you. You're my favorite." I managed a small attempt at a smile for the Major's attempts at calming me down. "Jack," he continued, "climb up there, and grab the other end. Luxmoore, Slater, report immediately!"

It seemed like hours before the two guys came to a screeching halt, panting from the sprint they had just endured. Since Charlie was blocking my view of anything outside my metal home, I couldn't see what was going on. However, at the sound of Vince's voice, my heart skipped a beat. And this time, it wasn't because I was scared to die. The whole time I was selfishly worrying about my hide, a little part of me had been concerned about the outcome of the rest of my partners. Were they dead? Were they alive? I hadn't known what to think. But at the sound of Vince's calming drawl, doubt was thrown to the wind, and I knew I wouldn't have to bear the brunt of whatever lay ahead by myself. I had my best friend and partner, as well as my other 'friends' by my side. Nothing could separate us.

"What the hell, Charlie, we were trying to scavenge the remainders of the food supply," Paul's voice demanded disrespectfully. "Why are you cah—?"

"Did you find her?" Vince's voice, like music to my ears, interrupted, slathered in fear and genuine hope.

Charlie nodded his head, his greasy white hair covered in soot and dirt. "Luxmoore, just grab this end over here. Slater, climb up there and assist your brother. We'll lift on three."

Paul snorted. "I can't climb up there. I just bought these pants. I'm not—"

"_Now_!" Charlie and Vince snapped.

"If you don't get up there in a jiffy, Slater, I will _never_ forgive you. That is a promise, understand?" I heard Vince growl as his attractive, less moral friend meandered up the scrap metal pile.

"Yeah, yeah," Paul muttered. "I'll go up the damn pile."

"Susannah, baby, if you can hear me, I love you," Vince continued, as if his incredibly rude friend hadn't interrupted. "Just hold tight."

"She's stuck, not deaf, you moron," Paul retorted.

"Shut your damn mouth, Slater, and direct all yer energy into lifting," Charlie spat, replacing his beret on his head. "On three. One . . . two . . . three."

By three, I was totally expecting to get out, you know? The four guys attempting my rescue were strong enough. They could lift me, and that's not an easy feat. However, at three, the only thing that commenced was my leg feeling no better and four grown men grunting and moaning like pigs upon entering the slaughter house. Even though I was with friends, I lost that much more hope of ever leaving my sarcophagus alive. I feel you, Imhotep. Except Vince would sacrifice his life for mine, not chicken out and reach a gruesome death courtesy of the scarab beetle.

The guys attempted two more times, both without success. By time four, they were wiped. Charlie even took a grimy looking handkerchief to his forehead, killing perspiration at its source.

"It's impossible, Charlie," Jack said solemnly. "The piece is just too heavy. We're gonna have to amputate her leg. That's the only way I can see this situation ending, at least alive."

"_What_?" I shrieked. They couldn't take my leg! That leg and I had been through a lot together. That _leg_ had won awards and respect for me in the fashion world. Without it, I would be like Tom Selleck without his mustache, or Patrick Swayze without his dancin' hips. I loved my leg.

Charlie spoke before I could voice any of my nonsensical ramblings. "You know what you do when you assume the situation is impossible? You make an ass out of you and me," he explained irritably. "Now stand back up, Lieutenant, and give it all you've got. That goes for the rest of you too. On three. One—two—three."

With all their might, the four men lifted as much as they possibly could, and this time, the piece of metal lifted just enough that I could pull my leg to freedom.

"Can you move your leg, Suze?" Jack asked in a strained, shaky voice. "Because if so, do it sooner rather than later, please."

I attempted to move my leg and both the pain from it being asleep and the pain from the pressure of the metal, combined. I couldn't even describe the feeling that violently surged through my limb. Let's just say that they guy whose ear was bitten off by Tyson didn't hold a candle in comparison to my ordeal.

"I can't," I answered frightfully. "My leg hurts far too much when I even attempt to move it."

"Be strong, Suze," Vince coaxed. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "You have to pull your leg out. We can't hold this up much longer."

"Yeah," Paul grunted, his words strained, "better do it fast or . . . amputee is your reality."

"Okay, okay, I'll do it," I yelled, preparing myself for the torrent of pain heading my way. But I didn't have time because the next thing I knew, Jack was voicing that he couldn't hold on any longer, and almost instantaneously, the metal block slammed to the ground.

I cried out in abject horror as the metal block crashed to the ground, disturbing a couple birds from their slumber. I had never seen men run that fast as they did then, wanting to know if I was alright. It was when the dust settled that they got their answer. The leg had not been crushed, but the ordeal had been so painful, my head was woozy, and I felt as if I were going to puke my innards out. Making me even more nauseated was the sight of the blood still seeping out of my cracked epidermis.

The first to speak was Jack who apologized profusely saying he was sorry for almost "chopping my leg off." It was Vince who took command this go around. "Paul, run and go get de Silva. Tell him to bring his supplies and make sure he has a tourniquet. We need to staunch the flow immediately." He quit talking for a moment and offered me his hand. "Can you stand up, Suze?"

I grabbed his hand and watched in fascination as he pulled me to my feet with one arm. The 'me-standing-on-my-own' feat was a bad idea because as soon as pressure was applied to it, I almost stumbled to the ground. By grabbing me just in time, Vince was able to keep me standing. Instead of letting me walk on my own, he scooped me up into his arms and began to carry me over to where Jesse and Paul were. To Charlie and Jack, he said, "You two, gather our things, and move them away from the plane within reason. We could be here for awhile, and we don't need anything or anyone, God forbid, taking our desperately needed supplies."

"On it," Jack acquiesced for both he and his partner. The two set off towards an area about twenty yards away from us. We continued watching them until their destination was finally reached. It was then that Vince spoke.

"For awhile back there, I thought I lost you, Suze," he admitted quietly, his deep blue eyed gaze dark, and no hint of a smile anywhere on his expression. He had honestly feared the conclusion that I had been killed.

Taking it all in, I joked saying, "Afraid you wouldn't have anyone to ignore anymore, eh?" With a single glance at his unappreciative expression, I quickly apologized. "Sorry, Vince, I didn't mean to—what I meant to say was—look . . . I apologize for making light of your concern. It's just . . . I'd rather not discuss it. That was a close call and—well, thanks." I grazed my hand on his cheek and smiled weakly. "I thought I was a goner there for a moment as well. But you know what ultimately saved me?"

He gave a tiny smile and set me down on a flat piece of the damage, kneeling, so he was eye level with me. "What was that?" he asked, keeping me steady by holding onto my shoulders.

I rested my forehead on his, smiling, and replied, "It was the sound of your voice, darling."

Moving his hands from my shoulders to my face, he asked, the smile never leaving, "Really?"

I giggled, "Mmm-hmm." And then joined him in the motion of kissing; the event used when communication just isn't there. It was while we were comforting each other with our embrace that we were interrupted by no other than Paul Slater.

"My God, we're ultimately stranded in a strange, freaking hot land, and the only thing you two can think of is sex?" he asked incredulously. He was accompanied by Jesse, who had brought along with him his supplies, and they were approaching Vince and me. We took our time separating, and when we did, we were still staring at each other giddily as if it were our first kiss. Jesse acknowledged our together time by merely setting his supplies down and setting up. Paul, on the other hand, continued rambling which was amazing. The fact that he thought any of us were even listening, I mean. Not the fact that he could ramble.

"Why don't the two of you direct your libidos toward something more productive?" he wanted to know, donning a pair of sunglasses he took from his pants pocket. "Like, just a for instance, how about getting us the hell out of here . . . wherever _here_ is."

Vince stood up and slapped Paul on the back playfully adding, not so playfully, "Why don't you go find a vine and hang yourself? . . . Just a for instance."

Jesse and I chuckled softly, enjoying the annoyed/sarcastic look on Paul's face. We didn't say anything though. It wasn't as if we had a death wish. Jesse went back to cleaning my leg with antiseptic, and I went back to observing our surroundings, attempting to get rid of the nagging feeling that we were somehow missing something. Paul, meanwhile, was _still_ going on.

"That's nice, Lucky," Paul complimented, his intonation covered in sarcasm; his being not amused. "Real mature. You know, if it weren't so damn hot, I might actually go find that vine because it's a sad day indeed when a man realizes his friends are no longer." He tugged at the collar of his polo shirt. "God, it's hot. Where—"

"The Amazon," Jesse said out of seemingly nowhere.

"What?" was Paul's intellectual inquiry. "How the hell do you know that, de—?"

"The _Siparuna guianensis_ or Picho Huayo behind you. It is a type of plant that only grows in some mountain cloud forests in the Andes and the Amazon rainforest. Judging by the extreme heat, we are not in the Andes, so in conclusion, we have successfully landed ourselves in the Amazon," he explained. "Anything else you would like to know, Slater? Or may I get back to saving Susannah's leg?"

"Yeah," Paul blurted, amazed. "Do you have ESP? Because, BAM, you knew what I was going to ask when I was going to ask it."

I rolled my eyes even though I was happier knowing that we had at least reached our general destination even though the Amazon rainforest stretched over approximately three countries. But we had GPS, so no worries.

Vince whacked Paul upside the head for the stupid remark, and Jesse came back with, "It's not hard to read the stupid, _amigo_." Before Paul could defend his fragile, male ego, Jesse butt in, asking, "Lucky, Paul, do either of you have a belt I could use for this tourniquet? I'm out of the rubber holds I usually use."

"Paul?" I asked knowingly. Thy guy actually had the nerve to grin widely and look proud of himself. He had sex. It wasn't as if it were some unimaginable feat for us mere mortals.

Jesse looked from me to Paul, and then back again quizzically. "Lucky, give me your belt—what did I miss?" he wanted to know, holding his hand out for Vince's belt.

"Paul boffed government personnel to get those coordinates," I explained for him. "It's a step up from when he used to have to pay people for those types of services."

"Hey—!" Paul interjected.

"Slater, are you serious? You stole government information?"

Paul nodded energetically, that creepy smile still stuck to his mug. "What did you think? I was going to use my magical powers? You're the one with ESP, not me." I didn't have the courage to point out that he easily could have dematerialized into the facility and gotten the documents that way. Exude wit, or keep thirty-six year old secret still as secret? The choices.

Paul continued explaining what went down on his mission. "You see, I had a contact, and plan 'A' was to ask politely for the coordinates concerning Pete. Plan 'A' was nipped in the bud almost immediately, so it was then that Plan 'B' was set in action. Plan 'B' consisted of seducing the answer out of the contact." He paused and smiled. "One thing lead to another . . . and to make a long story short—"

"Too late."

"—after the main event, I searched the contact's apartment, and oddly enough, I got what I was unable to seduce out of the contact. Win, win deal on both ends. I give her an orgasm; she gives me our ticket to Pete."

Jesse, despite himself, shook his head, grinning. "You truly are a . . . cocksman, Slater. The top of your class."

It was while we were moving onto more pressing issues, that we were interrupted by hat we were apparently missing.

"Excuse me," his irritated voice rang out. "Excuse me. A little help . . . would be useful if it's not too much TROUBLE!"

Apparently, it was not only I who had forgotten our seventh member, but everyone else had as well. We had forgotten all about The Master.

"Whoa, Maverick, where are you buddy?" Vince called out frantically. "Give me your location."

"I'm due south of the right wing, and my face is mere inches from its PROPELLER!" he shouted angrily. Then again, I'd be pretty angry if I were forgotten. "This is the last time I ever help you out, Vincent! And if I'm lucky, seeing as how I was forgotten, this will also be the last time I help you out with three limbs instead of two. The one limb will fall off due to gangrene."

Vince, with the help of Jesse and Paul, was able to locate The Master and pull him out of his rut. The man they pulled out was not one that would come to mind when a name like Maverick Hacker is given. Maybe one like Wellington or Percy. Oxymoron Central.

With The Master fully functioning, the five of us set off towards the remaining two members of our Nerd Posse. Upon arrival, Charlie and Jack handed us our designated luggage, and for once, I was glad that Vince had forced me to only bring two. The two guys also had The Master's computer central put together. Apparently everyone else was as eager as I was to find out our destination, and if we had been lucky enough to land, or crash, anywhere near target.

Giving Maverick Hacker a computer to work on was like giving a crack addict just that, more crack. Each knew exactly what to do with their acquired substance, and while a computer was certainly not cocaine, Maverick knew exactly what needed to be done. We all watched in fascination as numbers flew across the screen, and a satellite attachment rose from behind the computer trying to catch a link to the nearest satellite.

All hopes were dashed when in huge writing "NO SIGNAL" flashed across the screen, making a buzzing sound. The sound of failure.

"That can't be," Maverick proclaimed. "This is top of the line equipment. Let me try it again."

He tried again. Thirty times more; each time failing more than the last. It was when The Master finally shut down in complete defeat, that we all felt the grasp of fear clutching onto our esophagus, making it so we could never swallow hope again. Without the computer, no only did we have no idea where we were, but we had no contact with the outside world either. No one knew where we were, except the seven of us. Well, us and those government agents. We were trapped with no way out, and the journey ahead looked no more comforting than the mouth of a hungry lion.

Charlie was the first to speak to the spooked crowd, and in the determined soldier attitude, he said, "Keep moving forward, troops. And don't turn back."

**+SS+**

**July, Present Day**

**Washington D.C.**

**Third Echelon Headquarters**

Felicity Grabowski could hear the sound of her heels hitting the tiled floor quite clearly as she did a sort of power walk to the conference room. It wasn't that the hall was silent, surprisingly, there were quite a few people socializing or just walking through the hallway as she was. It was the fact that she had come upon some ghastly news that could ultimately destroy not only her career, but that of partner's, General Holdren, the guy in charge of the two of them, Agent Wesker, and ultimately, the President's career as well. She had known, coming into the Third Echelon community, that she was never going to get her crowning glory day, and she was okay with that. But it had never even crossed her mind that she might join the ranks of Benedict Arnold, Josef Stalin, and Saddam Hussein on the page of infamy. Not that it would get out immediately that she had caused all this destruction, but the media was tricky. They would find a way to make her crash and burn.

Third Echelon was an organization that functioned much like its distant cousins the CIA and the NSA, only it was so secret, that the government had continually denied its existence. It was the organization behind the sudden disappearance of the mafia, the death of Hitler, and the covering of Atlantis. Not even most of the presidents believed that Third Echelon was truly in existence. However, President David Graham had done his research. He was fully aware of Third Echelon's involvement in the history of time, and loved a conspiracy. It was he, as a matter of fact, who had sent the organization on the hunt for the rumored cure to the AIDS virus in the Amazon. Though the task was not one Third Echelon was most known for, it wasn't as if they could actually decline the President. He was, after all, the leader of the free world.

Dwelling on these facts caused the sound of her heel on tile to grow even louder, causing her head to nearly explode. At thirty-four, and with a relatively stable career, the last thing she needed was to have to admit to the President, or even Agent Wesker for that matter, that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong. She felt as if every eye were directed on her, judging her, blaming the death of millions on her.

Joining her jaunt to the conference room came General Holdren. With a single glance, she saw that he too had heard the news. This put her in an even darker mood. She might as well kiss her stability good-bye, and welcome a life of infamy.

"You've heard then?" she asked quietly to her gruff partner. Though Holdren was a strict character, he had been her partner for as long as she remembered, and even though she didn't agree with him on some things, like knocking that attractive guy out into a hospital waiting room coffee table, she trusted no one more with her life than him. And she knew that he would take the fall with her one hundred percent. Unless, of course, the occurrence was due to her stupidity.

"For an agency based on stealth, things don't stay secret around here for too long," he acknowledged. He was clothed in his olive uniform, christened with the numerous badges and pins he had won through his service during 'Nam and the Gulf War. His beret was in perfect order, and his shoes shined to a tee. "Is it me, or does it seem as if everyone is boring holes into us today?"

Felicity breathed out shakily. If she lost her job, it would be the end of her. She had no family, no boyfriend, and no friends. Her life had to remain secret, and she was willing to pay the sacrifices, but without a job, she would have to start all over again. It was while she was mulling over in self pity that she realized they had reached the double doors that lead into the conference room. She felt her stomach tighten. Good bye, life.

"We'll do this together, Grabowski, got me?" The General asked; his expression firm.

Felicity nodded weakly and followed in step as the General entered the room. As always when she entered the conference room, she was fascinated by all the computers lining every inch of every wall. A huge oval shaped table was in the middle room, and at the head of the table, as usual, was Special Agent Leon Wesker, the head of the Special OPS group. With an eye whose iris was blood red, and the other eye replaced with a computerized replica of an eye, Agent Wesker was not a man you wanted to screw with. He had been with Third Echelon longer than anyone else in the department, and despite denied existence, he had some close ties with the White House. He was to Third Echelon what Zeus was to the Greeks. He controlled who died, and who continued on to the next day.

When he finally noticed his two agents, he smiled and asked, in his slight southern twang, "Ah, my dear agents, what seems to be the problem? Everything is going well, I presume?"

Felicity gave a glance over to General Holdren, and was relieved to see that he was going to take over the situation. The General smiled in return greeting, and admitted, "Sir, there seems to be a bit of a problem with the assignment you gave us."

For a moment, a flash of anger crossed Agent Wesker's face, but it almost immediately resolved, and he was back to his pleasant self. "Problem?" he asked. "What kind of problem. And this time, you tell me, Felicity."

Felicity was shocked. She swallowed the hard lump in her throat, and attempted speech. "Well, sir," she began, "it appears that someone has taken the geographical coordinates concerning Peter Simon's case."

This ignited the spark of rage in Wesker. He stood up and slammed a fist on the table. The other workers continued typing away, having grown used to his common flip outs by now. "What the hell do you mean 'it appears'? Either someone has taken them, or they haven't. What's the verdict?"

"Someone has indeed taken the coordinates," Holdren explained. "That someone appears to be Susannah Simon, Peter Simon's daughter. She got a group of people together, and the last we heard from them, they were on their way to the location. But have no worry. One of our men shot the plane down. By this time tomorrow, they'll probably be rotting corpses in the ocean, sir."

If General Holdren was hoping to please Agent Wesker with this news, he failed miserably. "You IMBECILE!" he roared. "They have the coordinates, the ONLY copy, mind you, and you decide to shoot at the plane? Do you want to have our asses on the chopping block, Holdren?"

General Holdren looked taken aback, and slightly annoyed. "No, sir, I—"

Wesker raised his hand as if ending the discussion. "I'm sending you two over there with a team of men. This ordeal is of the utmost importance. And once you retrieve the coordinates, you are to annihilate those involved, understand?"

"But, sir!" Felicity objected.

"Do not take that tone with me, Miss Grabowski," Wesker growled. "This assignment is under your watch, as well as Holdren's. Do not mess this up. You leave tomorrow. Dismissed."

As Felicity Grabowski exited that room, she knew that the worst was yet to come. And this time, there was no turning back.

* * *

I apologize for the length. I had wanted to get it up fast because I need to plan for the next couple chapters. So to all, a happy holidays, and New Year's because I won't have the next chapter up until about three years, lol.

To Joanna: I lurve Hawk Nelson, and I have heard of Skillet, but not that other guy. And I also love Conan. And I just want to say that your reviews are always so nice and appreciated. And also that you do not want to be me. Ever. Ever. Or even ever.

Much love to my other reviewers.

The General


	6. Of Tripods and Retinas Removed

Just a couple notices to the reviewers:

Nicole and/or anyone who was wondering: In no way, shape, and/or form is Vince a mixture of Jesse and Paul. Yes, he cares about Suze, and at times he's arrogant, but eww, no. Vince is kind of a compilation of what my one type of 'dream' guy would be. If you'll notice, he's smart, he's got black hair and dark blue eyes, he's into stand up comedy, and he really does love Suze. And despite how gorgeous he is, he is ultimately the über nerd, and that is why we all love him. The fact that his name is 'Vince' and he is Texan is for another discussion, another time.

Joanna: Just so I set the record straight, that line was supposed to be corny. Vince and Suze were caught in their lovey-dovey moment. Teehee, I hate, hate, HATE corny lines in movies, and I try to steer clear of them in my writing. So anything corny, know that I put it in their ONLY because Suze or Vince is feeling corny at the moment. Not the General. The General is never corny. Only ever hot and intimidating.

Oh, and just a P.S., Third Echelon is not something I made up. It is Tom Clancy's idea, and it comes from the video game series _Splinter Cell_. Also, due to lack of names, President Graham and the name Agent Wesker (along with the first name Leon) come from another game _Resident Evil 4_. What can I say? Too much game time, not enough names. So there's your disclaimer.

* * *

**July, Present Day**

**Unknown Airspace**

"Agent Grabowski!"

Felicity shook herself out of the stupor that had had a hold over her just a few minutes ago. Turning her gaze in the direction of the voice that had called to her, she realized that it had been Wesker that was trying to get her attention. She nodded, signaling that he now had her attention.

"Grabowski, don't tell me you're getting soft on me," Wesker commented, his computerized eye still as creepy as ever. Well, computerized wasn't the right term for it. There was a metal plate over where his original eye had been, and in the plate was a red orb that constantly had binary code (ones and zeroes) running down it vertically, along with the occasional thought wave. It was one of those secretive technological advances that the general public wasn't aware of yet. The eye seemed to have its own mind sometimes.

Felicity shook her head, ignoring the uncomfortable state she was in. From this plane, both she and General Holdren were to be dropped off to the middle of nowhere where they would board another plane which would finally take them to their destination. In preparation, they had made everyone don flight jumpsuits as well as all the other equipment. Apparently both she and Holdren were too valuable to the mission to be gambled with. Felicity snorted at that thought. They were so valuable that they couldn't even give them the correct sized jumpsuits. With her work suit underneath the jumpsuit, the thing was at least three sizes too small. Not only that, but her helmet was at least two sizes too big, as well as her boots. The only things that seemed to fit correctly were the goggles and, hopefully, the parachute.

"Not at all, sir," Felicity finally replied, futzing with the strap to her helmet. "I was just distracted by something. I apologize."

Wesker nodded in contempt, and leaned back against the side of the chopper. They were at a high enough height that they couldn't see the ground. For all she knew, they could be boarding the next plane in Sri Lanka, or even Myanmar. That was the one thing that she didn't quite like about her job: all the secrets. Apparently, they wouldn't even meet the squad they were assigned until they reached the drop off.

"Wesker, go over our objectives again, just so I don't forget," General Holdren finally spoke, coming away from his spot in the shadows. He was in his paratrooper getup, and he, like her, had the parachute prepped and ready on his back. "You want us to . . . kill the girl?"

Wesker nodded, and folded his hands together on his lap. "Yes, but not before you get the coordinates. The coordinates are the mission's priority. The coordinates lead us to Peter Simon, who leads us to the AIDS cure. Get them and your rewards will be unfathomable."

General Holdren smiled at that one in almost an animalistic sort of way. Felicity never knew why he had joined Third Echelon in the first place. He always struck her as more of the fortune and glory guy, not the one doing his duty because it could keep a poor family safe.

"What about the others?" Felicity included, turning her head away from the window she had been staring out of. "Peter Simon? What are the orders on them?"

Wesker yawned. "Annihilate them. President's orders," he stated bluntly. "They put this mission into danger the moment that note was handed to them. And as for Peter Simon? Make his death the worst. He's making me miss my dinner with the President. No word can get out about this. Stealth is the biggest issue here. Besides the fact that it would have given us the upper hand if that note were in our possession."

The general and the agent gave each other a knowing glance, and gave a tiny smile. How lovely indeed was it that somehow, they had come into possession of the note. It was for this reason that the two of them were so valuable. They were the best in the business.

"Actually, sir," General Holdren said gladly, fishing in his breast pocket for the aforementioned piece of paper, "your wish is our command."

If there was ever a moment in Agent Wesker's life where he showed some emotion other than stoicism, this was it. Though it wasn't much, there was no mistaking the tiny glimmer in his almost correctly functioning eye. This discovery had made his job that much easier.

"Ah," he proclaimed, his sadistic smile gleaming, "General, you have made me one happy man. Hand it over."

Not being one to waste time, Holdren handed the paper over to Wesker immediately. He then took a seat next to Felicity, awaiting Wesker's reaction. However, the reaction they had in mind, and the reaction plastered on Wesker's face were two very different things.

"Is this your idea of a joke?" Agent Wesker asked coldly, his whole body shaking now.

Holdren and Grabowski exchanged glances, uncertain as to what Wesker was talking about. Felicity spoke first. "Of course not, sir," she protested. "That was the note handed to Ms. Simon."

"Somehow I seriously doubt that," Wesker said dryly. He chucked the paper at the two on the bench. "Take a look for yourselves."

In eager anticipation, the two agents opened the paper and read its contents:

_And you thought I just designed shoes._

_How's it feel to be humiliated? _

Much love,

Suze

America had just declared war on the Simons.

**+SS+**

**July, Present Day**

**South America**

**Somewhere in the Amazon**

"My feet are killing me," I cried, pausing to pull one of my heels off. It felt like there was a stone in the one. How does that happen all the time?

"Well, maybe if you would have dressed and packed more appropriately, you wouldn't be having that problem," chastised Paul. Although, he was one to talk, in his loafers and Dockers. What gave him the right to be criticizing me all the time?

Just to keep on track, we had crashed, our only source of communication to the outside world couldn't get a signal, and we had been aimlessly trekking through one of the most dangerous environments in the known world for what seemed like days. Since our communication station hadn't worked, Charlie commanded that we keep moving. I couldn't help but agree with him because I had caught a glance at some of the plants that seemed to be surrounding us at all times. Let me just tell you: some of them looked like they could spit acid at you. Or anthrax.

For a city girl like me, who had spent the majority of her life in Carmel, Philadelphia, and Manhattan, this was all new to me. I had never been one for the outdoors much (a nasty experience with poison oak can be blamed for this) and, to be quite honest, it was just a little bit scary to be in a foreign place with surroundings that I wasn't accustomed to at all. I mean, the closest I had come to this at all was when we had taken some time off down at Vince's property in Texas. I know Texas isn't covered in vast forest, and I'm not trying to be stereotypical, but, like this God forsaken forest, there is absolutely nothing around. Save for a Waffle House, our horse stable, and Vince's hometown of San Antonio (we live awhile away), there is nothing. And while it's a nice change from the hustle and bustle of Manhattan, the silence is still kind of creepy. However, the Amazon had reached a new kind of creepy. One that was a little harder to get over than, say, Tonya Jenkins showing up at Junior Prom with the exact same dress on as me.

It was while I was mulling things over that an idea had occurred to me. I slipped my boot back on, and then I went to search through my handbag. When I spotted my cell phone, I smiled triumphantly and flipped it open.

"That isn't going to work . . . Susannah, is it?"

"Call me Suze," I corrected.

"Right," The Master said, adjusting his large sunglasses and safari hat. "Well, anyway, Suze, if my CSL didn't get a signal, there's no way your cell phone will. It is far too weak." He paused, and touched his forearm, not before flinching in pain. "I can feel the layers of my dermis burning up, Vincent. This is the last, I repeat, last time I ever consent to anything that involves you. You merely get me in danger."

Vince at my side, smiled at Maverick's back, but didn't say anything. Paul, however, felt the need to comment on how stupid my idea was.

"Suze, did you really expect your measly Motorola to get a signal when The Master's CSL didn't get one? God, you're such a dumbass," he mocked, kicking a small snake out of his pathway.

"Hey!" Vince defended geniously. Not.

I was appalled. Paul and I had always had our little quarrels, sure, but he had never called me anything that hurtful. Even after we had broken up, yes, barbs were thrown, in fact, come to think of it, there were some really _good_ ones thrown (Paul had always had a way with words. Shakespearean even), but never had he stooped so low to insulting my intelligence. A matter I was sensitive with having hung out with geniuses my whole life. What was his deal?

Flustered, I couldn't exactly think of what to say. Eventually, I settled for, "Do you even know what CSL stands for, you farsighted prick? You know, at least I tried to help the situation. I don't see you making any suggestions."

"You want suggestions, Suze? Okay, here's a suggestion: how about getting out the note Pete gave to you? Oh, wait. That's right. You can't because you gave it away when we specifically told you not to." As an afterthought, he added, "And, yes, as a matter of fact, I do know what CSL stands for. It stands for Computer-Satellite Link."

I stamped my foot out of pure frustration, ignoring how immature the gesture was. "Oooh," I scowled, "Slater, you had better start being a little nicer to me, or I'll—"

"Or you'll what?" he wanted to know. "Spank me?"

Mentally, I told myself to compose myself as the mature professional I was. Stooping down to a degrading level was Paul's thing, not mine. Or at least that's what I was telling myself right up to when I made a single-fingered gesture I wasn't too proud of.

"How about instead, I serve up a dish of humiliation?" I said, not stepping back or taking any crap from him. "Wouldn't be the first time this week," I added. "How's this for humiliating? I've got my dad's note right here—" I pulled the tiny sheet of paper out of my handbag. "—in my hot, little hands."

Everyone stopped moving and turned to gawk at me; Paul because he thought I was lying, Charlie and Jack because everyone else had, Maverick because he had slammed into Jack when he had abruptly halted, and Jesse and Vince because they actually understood what my proclamation meant.

Vince, having been assured that the note was real, looked at me in a new light. He smiled widely and confessed, "I love you."

I smirked and patted his shoulder. "I know, dear." I chucked the note at Paul. "I'll accept verbal or written apologies at any time," I hinted.

Jesse, having taken one look at the note, glanced back at me in astonishment. "Susannah," he finally breathed, "do you realize what you have done?" I nodded eagerly, and Jesse made a small grin and added, "I believe the phrase they use is 'Rock on, sister.'"

Jack tried to stifle a laugh, while I gave Jesse a look of amused sympathy. I loved him. Charlie, however, completely unamused, swatted a huge mosquito type bug off of his protruding bicep, and grunted, "Unless that's a document proving FDR really didn't have Polio, and it was just a method to get the sympathy vote, then who gives a damn? We have a mission to complete, so unless you want to become tiger chow this evening, then I suggest we keep moving." He gestured towards the sky. "I can't get enough of a look, but I have a feeling that it's gonna get real dark real soon, so I'm thinking we should set up camp not too far from now. Oh, and, Paul?"

Paul lifted his head and glanced at Charlie, "Yeah, Major?"

"Lay off 'a Suzie," he commanded. "She's the only one I like outta the bunch of you, and if she dies of a broken heart, you'll never live to hear your own beat a final time."

My heart swelled with pride and love for the Major Charlie O' Neil. I even smiled widely when I caught a glance at the annoyed expression on Paul's face. Sure, the comment would have been more romantic had the words been uttered from the mouth of Vince, but I took what I could. Besides, I had a feeling that the Major and I were going to get along just fine. Something about him, despite his rough, tough exterior, made me feel safe. He was kind of like a father figure, I guess.

Funny. My father had never approved of Paul either when I had announced we were dating way back when. It wasn't that my father didn't like Paul—quite the contrary actually—but he knew what Paul's dating habits were like before me, and he had just wanted to protect his little girl. I should have listened to him. It would have spared a lot of tear shed and heartache. But when you're young, what do _parents_ know?

Not that the whole experience was bad. We had our share of fun when Paul wasn't being an asshole, or we weren't screwing each other. By fun, I meant when we went out on dates, traveled, or even when we would just hang out, watching movies at my place. Paul was, is, an easy guy to talk to once you pry beneath his many layers, and even though we had sex (you can't call it making love because I don't think there was ever love between Paul and me) more than we ever went out on, say, normal dates, I never really minded because the sex was beyond the realms of nirvana.

Paul wasn't like any of the other guys I had met in college. He was on a maturity level that not many men reach in a lifetime. He was sensitive, yet arrogant. He had wandering eyes, but he was loyal. He was rude, yet honest. He could differentiate between a serious moment and a laughing matter. Vince sort of turned everything into a joke whether it be—

Sorry. I can't believe I almost compared Paul to the love of my life. So not happening ever again.

Without so much as a praise of good work, Paul chucked the note at me, and continued walking with the others. The only emotion that could possibly bring forth such childish actions was jealousy. Paul Slater was jealous of me. _Me_, Susanna Simon! Not only did I have one of the largest empires in the entire fashion world, but I had foiled government officials, something Paul had always wanted to do, but never had the opportunity or the balls to do so.

Then again, I am Susannah Simon, and I am unstoppable.

**+SS+**

"So Maverick Hacker then, eh? How did that come about?" Jesse wanted to know. "That can't possibly be your real name."

Those of us who could be of no use (i.e. Jesse, Jack, The Master, Paul, and I) were sitting around a fire we had gathered fuel for earlier in the evening. Despite the scalding temperatures during the day, it was surprisingly cool once that sun went down. Not arctic cold, but annoyingly cool so that you had to sit close to the fire to feel comfortable enough. Sitting around the fire reminded me of those years I had stupidly joined Girl Scouts, and we would sit around the fire consuming large amounts of marshmallows while discussing yarn or Popsicle crafts. A very stupid choice on my part.

We had set up camp not long after Charlie had suggested we do so. He and Vince were off finishing what we had nearly finished earlier. Basically camp consisted of our fire ring and three canvas tents completely surrounded by heavy mosquito netting and a bright blue rain tarp. They certainly weren't kidding when they said the Amazon was crawling with insects. I had been bitten at least fifteen times. And while I was certain mosquito netting and a rain tarp weren't going to protect us from tigers or whatever, I could at least be certain that I wouldn't wake up to find my body half consumed by flesh eating ants.

Sleeping arrangements weren't exactly ideal, but we hadn't wanted to weigh ourselves down with unnecessary supplies. Plus, seeing as how guys eat, we had enough weight on our hands. The tents were two man tents, so it wasn't too bad for me. I got to share one with Vince. Since Charlie and Jack chose to share one, it was the other three that I felt kind of badly for. Paul, Jesse, and Maverick had to share the last tent. Well, really, I felt sorry for Jesse and Maverick. No one liked Paul.

Maverick thought a second, the shadows from the fire danced on his pale face, before he finally answered. "Well, as you probably don't know, I used to be the government's secret weapon," he explained, taking a slice of apple offered to him by Paul. "Thank you. I was the guy who could hack into foreign countries' government files and retrieve whatever was needed. However, all good things must end sometime. One day, curiosity got the better of me, and I hacked into the database at Area 51. I had to know if the rumors were real."

"They aren't," Jack remarked tiredly, rolling his eyes. The light from the fire created shadows on his strong features, making him look older than he was. He had changed so much since I had known him. It made me sad to realize how many people I had abandoned once my dad disappeared.

Maverick glared at Jack. "Silence," he commanded, "I wouldn't know. I was caught before I could see anything. I was revoked my U.S. citizenship, and the fools forced their greatest asset to go to Indonesia. I had been living there until I received Vincent's call. Anyway, I am called The Master because I am the best at my job. The rest are inferior."

The distant sound of birds calling, frogs croaking, insects buzzing, and animals growling could be heard over the crackling of the blazing fire. Unfortunately, the clutter of tree overhead blocked any view of the nighttime sky. Had I been able to see anything, I'm sure the sight would have been breathtaking, just like it was back in Texas. That was one other thing I liked about Texas; being able to sit outside on the deck hearing nothing but the random cry of a coyote, and seeing nothing but the vast amount of sky and stars overhead. You couldn't see that in Manhattan what with the massive amount of air pollution and smog.

"But what about Maverick Hacker?" I heard myself absentmindedly ask. I wasn't too involved with conversation because I was too deep in thought to care. Not only that, but I was feeling cold, and I had just wanted to be by myself for a while, which was proving to be impossible. Not only were the guys fawning over my injured leg, which had mostly healed by the way, but you couldn't go far from camp for fear a pterodactyl would swoop down and pick you up or something.

"Yeah," Jack chimed in, "where'd that come from?" He paused and laughed. "No offense, bud, but you look nothing like a dude named Maverick."

Paul snorted while he sliced another piece of apple with his pocketknife and popped it into his mouth. "Says you, Tripod."

This time it was Jesse who snorted, and, unable to contain himself, he burst out into laughter. Paul, seeing this, grinned, and Jack glared at the two menacingly, while both Maverick and I sat in ignorance.

"What did you call him?" I asked, now interested.

"Tripod," Paul explained; his mouth full. He swallowed, and asked, "What, you mean nobody ever told you about Jackie's childhood nickname?"

I shook my head, smiling slightly. Apparently, I would finally find out. Paul had always treated me like an equal. He was never concerned about my womanly innocence. It was a good think at times like this.

"Well," Paul began before Jack interrupted.

"I swear to God, Paul, you utter one more word and I will kick your ass from here to Anchorage," he threatened, his teeth clenched together.

Both Paul and Jesse cracked up, slapping their knees in hysteria. "You'll do no such thing, Jack, because you'll be too embarrassed to even speak," Paul explained after having recovered from his laughing fit. He cleared his throat before speaking to me again. "Ahem. Anyway, Suze, when we were younger, Vince, de Silva, and I, and before we knew women liked it that way, we would make fun of Jack, over here, because he was so large . . . down there, or rather well endowed would be the appropriate description." Jack groaned, and covered his face with his hands, too embarrassed to even defend himself. "So we called him Tripod," Paul explained, still smiling, "which really just comes from the image you get when you think about his huge dick in proportion to the rest of his body." He then proceeded to demonstrate it with his fingers.

"Eww, okay, Paul, stop," I begged, shutting my eyes closed tight. "We get the picture."

"Suze," he continued; he and Jesse both dying of laughter, "it was like a freaking kickstand!"

I cringed once more, and couldn't help but grin just the smallest bit. It _was_ kind of funny. However, the last thing I wanted to think about when I thought of Jack was his large manhood. Trying to stop the mental images from coming into play, I burst out, "Okay, sorry I asked. Maverick, indulge us in your story about your name. Please."

Maverick was about as intent as I was in finding a new topic to discuss. I could see the reflection of the fire in the two lenses of his wire rims. I imagined he had taken his share of mocking back when he was younger. He was really skinny and pale, and his bright red-orange hair stuck out messily from atop his head. Plus, he was smart. Women don't appreciate the skinny, white, pasty, smart guys until it's too late because they're rich, and they now have a model hanging off one of their arms.

Over the _pop_ of the fire, and the light snickering of the guys unable to control themselves, he admitted, "Alright, so Maverick Hacker is my alias. But only because it sounded far superior to my real name which is much to embarrassing to even admit."

"Trust me," came the dark voice of Jack Slater. "Nothing is more embarrassing than 'Tripod'." This only served to send the guys into fresh peals of laughter.

Maverick sighed from his seat of honor next to me, ignoring the two dunces directly across from us. "Okay, my real name is Benjamin Dover, but do not ever repeat it, or I will hurt you in the only way I know how via technology."

The two guys finally stopped laughing, their faces visible only because of the fire's glowing light. "Benjamin?" Jesse asked as confused as the rest of us. "There's nothing wrong with Benjamin. Look at Benjamin Franklin."

And it was then that we heard it. The loud roar of Jack's laughter, I mean. Apparently, he had found something to get him over his horrendous embarrassment. "No. Guys," he said between gasps for air. "Ben Dover. Bend-over?"

There was a minute of silence before Jesse and Paul joined in the raucous laughter. I rolled my eyes. Men.

I took the opportunity to quietly excuse myself from the immaturity circle. After all, it seemed like I was going to be spending quite some time with these people. I needed all the alone time I could possibly get.

As I walked towards the perimeter of the camp, I thought a bit. There was something strangely serene about the jungle. Even though there was that chance that I could be mauled by a wild animal, it didn't seem to deter my strange liking of the place. The foreign sounds of the nocturnal animals at play seemed to be nature's lullaby for the sleepless, and I found the sounds awkwardly soothing.

"Hey."

I spun around and clutched a hand over my pounding heart. "Oh, shit, you scared me," I cursed, realizing my fear had been for nothing.

"Sorry," Vince apologized. He stepped over a large, protruding tree root, and grasped one of my hands in his. I looked up at him and noticed he was both wearing a red bandana on his head, and holding an average sized flashlight in the hand that wasn't holding onto mine. He also had a dirt smudge on his left cheek, but I didn't have the heart to tell him because it was actually kind of cute. "What are you doing all the way out here?" he wanted to know.

I began swinging our enclosed hands back and forth. I had always loved the feel of Vince's hands. They were strong like they could knock a guy out for talking smack about or molesting his woman, but they were gentle enough to make me feel safe, or thrill my every nerve when we made love.

"I just felt like being by myself for awhile, that's all," I finally answered, my eyes on the ray of light created by the flashlight. I think I saw a bajillionpede cross its path.

"Oh," Vince said in realization; his voice eager. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

I glanced at Vince head on and clicked my tongue in disapproval. "Vince," I assured him, "you're never interrupting." I paused and thought a moment. "Well, except when I'm trying to watch _Inside the Actor's Studio_ or whatever and you're blasting Johnny Cash from the bedroom. Then you're an interruption."

Vince grinned, and we both laughed lightly, almost in that nervous way. Like that awkward conversation before your first kiss. Except that this was not our first kiss, so what was going on?

After a moment of silence, Vince finally squeezed my hand and said, "Sorry."

I frowned. "About what?" I asked because I had genuinely forgotten that we had been fighting about. I had been more concerned with our lives than some petty argument.

"I know lately you've been annoyed—possibly angered—at how I keep picking the guys over you.—" he explained to me. His dark eyes were shadowed.

"Oh," I commented flatly. My stomach fell to my feet. I had completely forgotten about that grudge.

"—But you have to understand me, darlin'," he continued; ignoring my crestfallen exclamation, "I don't mean to hurt you. Jesse and Paul are like my brothers, and you and they are the people I love most in the world." He laughed. "Excluding my mom and your dad, of course. But seriously, Suze," he continued, "I'm just so used to always picking the guys because they've been there the longest, and they were there when my dad wasn't, and, regretfully, I forget I've got this amazing woman who loves me just as much, and possibly more, so I'm sorry."

I sighed. Why was it so hard to stay mad at this man? "I know, Vince," I consoled. "Sometimes I just forget what your friends really mean to you. I know you love me. You wouldn't have married me if you didn't. Unless, of course," I added in feign worry, "you married me for my money and my girlish charm. And when you say 'I love you' it's in the hopes that I'll role play the naughty cowgirl to your dastardly, totally ripped cowboy the next time we have sex."

"Never," Vince objected, denying the fact that he had ever wanted that to occur when he totally had. "I love you, Suze. Always have, always will."

The two of us smiled at each other, almost as if we had discovered these completely new sides to each other. "Just promise me one thing," I said, wrapping my arms up and around his neck.

"What's that, darlin'?" he asked pulling me in closer, allowing my feet to stand on his like my dad would do when I was younger, and he would teach me how to dance.

"Promise me that whatever happens out there—" I gestured towards the surrounding jungle. "—that we'll stick together like husband and wife; partner and partner."

"You've got my word, Suze," he promised, allowing my head to rest in the crane of his neck. My head fit perfectly, as if it were always meant to rest there. With his hands on my hips, he began to sway us back and forth, reminding me so much of my father and me way back when. "You've got my word," he repeated into my hair, saying nothing more.

**+SS+**

I couldn't go back to sleep. One moment, I was cuddling closer to Vince, and the next, I heard a strange sound that had freaked me out, which brings me back to my original statement: I couldn't go back to sleep.

Getting antsy, I slipped on my sole pair of hiking boots on underneath my green track pants and quietly removed myself from the double cot. Vince switched sides and muttered, "No, no, Captain Whitesnake, I would be honored to wax your cabinets," before peacefully going back to snoring quietly. I released the breath I hadn't realized I had been holding and grabbed my NYU sweatshirt along with my Colt .45. While I never condoned violence, let alone guns, it didn't hurt to be prepared. Besides, I needed to walk a bit, and nothing, not even killer monkeys, was going to stop me.

Upon exiting the tent, I noticed the fire, though, not blazing like before, was still going. I had recalled an assembly back in elementary school when Smokey the Bear had made a guest star appearance. He had said that one of the top leading starts to forest fires was leaving campfires unattended. It was obvious that no one else had been to that assembly along with me. I was in preparation to douse the flames when, to my surprise, I spotted Major O'Neil approaching the spot where I was standing.

"Major O'Neil—I mean, Charlie," I stuttered, my shock blatantly apparent, "what are you doing up?"

Charlie, seemingly unaffected, looked up at me and explained, "I'm the first on look out." Then, as if realizing who he was talking to, he posed, "I might ask you the same question, Suzie. What are you doing up so late, or early, depending how you look at it?"

I yawned and quickly swept my hair out of my face, securing it with a hair tie. "I couldn't sleep." I gestured to the log he was now sitting on. "Do you mind if I join you?"

The Major smiled. "Not at all. Take a seat."

I did as I was told, not that he was making me. Somehow everything that ever came out of Charlie's mouth sounded like a command. I couldn't help envying the way he always took control of the situation, no matter what it was. Perhaps it was all the years in the marines, but I was willing to bet that people followed and listened to Charlie because . . . well, he was Charlie. You could tell by looking into his eyes. He was strong, but fair. He was a loyal soldier and a loyal friend. And he was honest. Plus, he liked me. You can't go wrong there.

We, or rather I, sat there in silence, watching as Charlie took part in the redundant (or at least I considered it) task of cleaning his particular weapon. It appeared to be a shotgun of some sort.

"Back in the war, I used to clean my weapons when I was feeling antsy or just to pass the time," Charlie confided, interrupting our unawkward silence. He laughed a bit. "Old habits die hard, I guess."

We were silent a moment or two longer before I commented what he had probably heard time and time again. "It must have been horrible fighting in a war," I said, my eyes strangely fascinated by the dancing flames of the fire.

"It is," was his immediate response. He stopped moving the rag around, and parted his mouth, closing it again as if he had wanted to say something, but decided against it. "Certain aspects of it anyway," he restated. "Vietnam was bad because no one wanted us over there in the first place, and when we came home, no one acknowledged it, making us the outcasts on our own home soil. World War Two was different. Everybody was pissed off. We had finally gotten over the Great Depression, along with World War One when those damn tojo—excuse me; Japanese attacked us at Pearl Harbor. In the second World War, I was fighting for a cause I, along with a lot of other people, believed in, plus, I was young; stupid." He grinned lopsidedly and scoffed. "We were an elite troop of the finest men you've ever met. We were the heroes of yesteryear, and the country worked together, supporting us every moment we were fighting on foreign soil. All that praise can get to a young man's head, but it gave us the ego to continue the job we knew we had to do.

"War determines the true character of a man," he continued, commencing with the cleaning of his shotgun. I looked at him attentively. So many people choose to dismiss older people when they have so much to offer. They're living, walking history. "War is what separates the cowards from the heroes. You know who your true friends are when you fight with them through battle."

Something had been irking me as I sat and listened to Charlie. "How do you get over people just dying left and right?" I pondered, bringing my knees into my chest. I couldn't deal with my missing father, let alone thousands of guys falling at my feet not in worship, but because they had just been shot.

Charlie shook his head; a strand of hair fell into his face. "You don't," was his emotionless reply. He ran his fingers through his hair, keeping it out of his face. "Whether it's the guy you happened to be sitting next to on the boat, or your best friend of three years that gets gunned down, it's the hardest thing to deal with. But you have to keep on moving, and you can't forget what you're fighting for. As a matter of fact—" He fumbled with the inside of his jacket before retrieving what appeared to be a decrepit, yellowed photograph. "—I had wanted to show this picture to you."

I handled the picture with great care as it was handed to me. The photo depicted an attractive young, couple (circa 1940's); the guy in military uniform, and the lady in a polka dot dress with just about the cutest pair of shoes I had ever seen. I stored the image in my head for when I got back to New York. The young gentleman, so obviously Charlie, had his dark hair (the photo was black and white, so it was either black or brunette) slicked and parted as was stylish for men of that time, and the smile on his face added to his otherwise handsome facial features. The woman, I was shocked to see, looked almost exactly like me, but with shorter, and far wavier hair than I had. Charlie held the woman in his outstretched arms, and she kissed his cheek, but kept her eyes on the camera, a tiny smile creeping onto her attractive face. They were standing in front of what Vince would have assured me was a B-52 bomber, so this picture had obviously taken place right before Charlie was shipped off to Europe.

"Quite the handsome gentleman in this picture," I complimented, delighted to see Charlie smile, showing his few missing teeth, and slightly blush. I pointed at the woman, "but who is the lady in the picture?"

Charlie set his shotgun aside and admitted, "That's the woman I had mentioned earlier to you when we first met. That there is Susan Harold." I glanced at the picture once more, and smiled as I saw how young and happy the two looked. So carefree, like they didn't know what was in store for them. "Only," he continued, "she was my fiancée. Not just my girlfriend."

I squealed that squeal that usually only happy women can pull off when they discuss things like weddings, prince charming, etc. "You two looked so happy together," I chimed, smiling all that much more. I wasn't cold any longer. I was too engrossed in Charlie's tales of old. Somehow, I had concluded that he hadn't told any of this to Jack, let alone, anyone else before.

The Major took his photograph back and looked at it longingly before procuring a lopsided grin on his face. "We were happy," he explained in acknowledgement ofmy comment. "We kept in touch via letter, unlike you kids today what with your damn electronic mail and such. I was deployed over to Europe before the U.S. actually had any involvement in the first place, so we wrote each other letters for about a year, until I proposed to her through writing, and she accepted. I couldn't wait to see her again."

Charlie put the photo back in its proper place, and sighed dejectedly. He absentmindedly threw a spare twig into the slowly dying fire. "Before I even got to see her again, I got news that she had been one of the casualties down at Pearl Harbor. She was a nurse, you see." He stared aimlessly at a point somewhere outside the perimeter of the camp. "That's always tough. Learning that the woman you've loved for what seemed like a lifetime was killed thanks to those freaking Japs. I lost my best friend, Stephen, at Pearl Harbor too. He went down with the _U.S.S. Arizona_ apparently." Only, he didn't say freaking, and I didn't blame him. Not that rude words and racist names are right, but he had lost the love of his life. You had to feel for the guy.

I was beginning to see Charlie in a whole new light. Not only was he not so stone cold, but he had a past, making him seem more human than ever before. But it was what he showed me next that had me die of shock. He pulled out another photo, and stared at it awhile before handing it to me.

"I guess I was speaking half-truths before when I said 'Nam was horrible. Well, the majority of it was," he cleared up, "but it was there that I met one of the best friends of my entire life, even if it was only for a couple years. The guy was some years my junior, but we were like brothers. Pete S—"

"Simon," I said at almost the exact same time as he did. It was at that moment that I had gotten a good look at the picture, and sure enough, there was my father, acting all buddy-buddy with Charlie. "Peter Simon? That was the guy's name?"

Charlie looked taken aback for a second. "Yeah," he said, "that was his name. How the hell did you know that?"

I swallowed something hard in my throat that hurt as it went down. "Peter Simon is my father," I explained, the feeling of hysteria bubbling in my throat. "He's the one we're searching for out here."

It took the Major a couple seconds before he had made the connection. He glanced down at the photo he had snatched from me, and then back at me again. "I'll be damned," he breathed, slumping in his seat. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "I would have never made the connection had you not said something." He paused and looked at me once more. "Holy shit, I can't believe I didn't see it. You look almost exactly like Pete. But you must have your mother's eyes because Pete's were dark brown." He laughed incredulously and reached in his jacket for a cigarette. "What a small fu—"

The cigarette dropped from his hands as, from out of nowhere, something attacked Charlie's face, causing him to scream in abject horror. As it made its entrance, the cry the creature made sounded like someone scratching their nails on a chalkboard or even glass, and the only way to describe the creature was by saying it looked like it was a combo of a huge, slimy bat, and a big ass worm. With the split second I had glanced at the foreign creature before it attached itself to Charlie's face, I saw that the bottom half of the wormy part of the creature opened into one huge opening with hoards of tiny, sharp teeth. I don't recall having ever seenthat species in high school biology.

Charlie's cries for help were muffled due to the slimy creature covering his entire face. He was attempting to pull the thing off his face, but it was using the spiny claws on the edge of its wings to brutally scratch at his hands. Tiny droplets of blood dropped to the ground in tiny _splashes_, and I had no idea what to do.

I could have screamed for help, but at the time, I didn't think that was appropriate. Who knew how many others were out there just like that? So I did the first thing I could think of which was to grab my hand gun and load as many bullets into the creature as I possibly could, even though I had never fired a gun. My finger shook frantically on the trigger. Oh, why hadn't I gone to the shooting range with Vince when he had begged me too?

In my waiting for a clear shot, one finally came. Charlie had managed to give me a profile view, and as soon as I could swallow my fear, I shot the creature as many times as I could, careful not to get Charlie in the process.

Finally, after four shots, the creature loosened its grip and fell gracefully to the ground, as if Charlie had been attacked by the Snuggle's bear, and not some unidentifiable creature with massive amounts of teeth. I watched in amazement as the thing shriveled up, and on its dying breath, it violently shook and then coughed up this mucousy substance. I had watched too many movies to be stupid enough to let that demon seed live, so I shot it twice, just for good measures.

After only a moment of regrouping, I rushed over to Charlie's side, fearing the worst. "Are you alright, Charlie?" I cried frantically. "Say something. Please."

Charlie slowly stood up, and touched a hand to his face. Almost as soon as it touched, he recoiled in fear, and pulled his hand away. It was only by the light of the fire that I saw how the hand that had touched his face was covered in blood. "Son of a bitch," he finally spoke, his head still turned away from me. "That f—ker took my right eye!"

It was then that he finally turned around and stared at me. In utter repulsion, I fell to the ground, backing up on my hands and feet as fast as I could because Charlie had not been joking. Wherehe had once had a functioning eyeball was a large pool of deep crimson blood that was ejaculating from its concave hollow down the side of his face.

I snapped a hand over my mouth, horrified at the sight before me. Never had I shaken so much as I did that night, my brain numb, not allowing me to think logically. Finally after what was a few minutes, I called for Jesse.

What the _hell_ were we messing with?


	7. The Past Catches Up

Major Charles O'Neil was okay, to set the record straight. Minus one eye, of course, but fine nonetheless. (Jesse did the best he could in fixing it with the supplies he had and told Charlie to wear an eye patch—?—to keep foreign objects or any type of infection out. Charlie didn't seem too distraught about the diagnosis.) It was the rest of us that seemed to be shaken with the previous night's—or rather this morning's—occurrence. Well, to be more accurate, it was I who was totally freaked out. The man had just lost his EYE! I seemed like the only one who took the severity of the situation seriously. Sure, maybe there was a little more precaution than before. I mean, each of the guys had their specific weapons prepped and ready at their sides as we continued to aimlessly trek through the jungle; an activity, I was beginning to believe, that would become routine soon enough.

The thing that bothered me the most was that everyone was hesitant to believe the description of the creature I had given, even Charlie, and he was attacked by the thing! It wasn't that they flat out didn't believe me, it was more of a huge skepticism issue. And when you're forced to describe a creature straight out of Michael Crichton's (or Steven Spielberg's) _Jurassic Park_ or something, then there's the inevitable fact that there's going to be some skepticism, but from some of my best friends?

My husband believed me. He may not have been the most loyal partner in the sense of, you know, choosing me over the guys, but I knew I had his trust. It was one of the reasons we worked so well together. Our relationship was based on trust, something that was sorely missed between Paul and me. Trust, I mean. Then again, the scientist within Vince couldn't help buy question.

Paul disbelieved me flat out. To quote: "Are you plastered?" Which hinted that I was both unable to hold my liquor, and that I was a liar. I am so sure.

Jesse was the only one out of the entire group who actually believed me. He explained that it wasn't impossible that we had come across an unknown species seeing as how scientists had only discovered three percent of the Amazonian species or whatever. I didn't have to understand his babble to realize that I had at least one ally in this troop of axis.

And it wasn't as if they could conduct any tests on the creature either because it had disintegrated. Yeah, that's right. It had vanished, disappeared, _poof_. The thing just dissolved right back into the ground like the vamps on _Buffy_, only less dusty. Sorry, America of the South, but if I ever get off this God forsaken spit of land; I will so never be back. Not even to visit Brazil.

We had come to a narrow, but wide enough, pathway and decided to walk down it. Strange though it was that there appeared to be no trees on the path, it was even stranger that the path was well shaded, save for a few slivers of intense light strands. The shade was a welcome change from the bright light we had been traveling in mostly. I wiped the sweat from the nape of my neck. How did the Equatorians (i.e. people who live on and/or by the equator) stand it? It was so damn hot! Plus, I needed a well-deserved bath. I had to resort to putting my hair up into a ponytail. Not that it was grease mania or whatever, but you know. Besides, with a hot pink, rhinestoned bandana, I was jungle chic.

Well, from the neck up anyway. I don't really think you can consider Sauconys, a white tank-top, and a pair of Vince's black running shorts that had become too small for him, chic. I mean, the shorts were baggy, and they were about a quarter below my knee. That's not chic. That just means you were too lazy to pack a decent pair of shorts along for the ride. It's like ugly chic.

"We gotta stop soon," Maverick panted, his thin, pasty frame almost disappearing in his jungle get up which consisted of a safari hat, some khaki, canvas clothes, and tons of sunscreen. The poor guy appeared to have that type of skin that burned to a crisp the minute the sun touched it. He also appeared to be as exhausted as the rest of us were, possibly more so. "We have been walking since the sun rose."

Paul took a swig from his canteen and squinted as the sun hit his eyes since he didn't have his sunglasses on. "I have to agree with Maverick on this one," he breathed, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He, too, was wearing a bandana on his head, only, his was red, and he was also wearing a white undershirt (I can't call them wife-beaters. Then we wonder why domestic violence is such an issue in our country.), a pair of denim shorts, and L.L. Bean boots.

A squad of Navy S.E.A.L.S. couldn't get me to admit out loud that he wasn't exactly an eyesore at the moment in his glistening glory.

See, I couldn't even believe my subconscious thought that. It was the heat talking, I swear to you. I was only looking. I would never touch. At least not while I had my dark, brooding Texan all to myself. Scratch that. I would never touch again.

"It's smoldering, there hasn't been a water source in miles, and my canteen's almost empty. We should take five," Paul advised, pausing to take a quick break.

"We'll take a break," Charlie explained harshly, keeping the pace, "when I say we do. We need to get to higher ground, so we can once again set up camp before dark. The faster you start comprehending the routine, the faster you'll stop being a pain in my ass."

Paul glared at the Major before begrudgingly continuing, and even though I felt exhausted, despite the fact that I have fully kept up with my kickboxing routine, I couldn't help but smile in juvenile contempt. Paul had met his match, and there was no sweet talking or brownnosing this time.

The jungle, though scary and intimidating at night, was down right beautiful in the daylight. It's totally everything that those _National Geographic_ books show you, what with the bright colors and the beyond belief organisms. I just wished the book would have stressed more that the humidity was nearly unbearable. It was worse than Texas by far, and Texas fully supports the death penalty.

"A water source should not be far off," Jesse explained. He was busy cutting branches out of the way with his machete. It probably wasn't necessary, but I'm pretty certain he wasn't doing it out of any need to clear our path. It was just something he _had_ to do. Like when there's a door that has to be pushed to be opened, you don't _have_ to kick it open, but you do it anyway because it makes you feel more intense, and quite possibly like an older version of Buffy.

Or perhaps, more accurately, like a very sad, thirty-six year old that has never matured all the way. Yeah, more like that.

"The air is much more humid than it was a ways back, so water must be near by. That reminds me—" Jesse added, his face glistening from perspiration. "—how is your eye, Major?" Realizing his remark might be taken offensively, he added, "Or lack thereof?"

He cringed seeing that he hadn't redeemed himself, but Charlie didn't seem offended at all. Probably because he didn't hear the last remark. "The pain is gone," the Major confessed, giving a grateful nod to Jesse, "but it itches something fierce. Are you even allowed to scratch a damned eye socket? Or will I screw something up in there?"

"J-Just let it alone for now," the doctor advised assuredly. "If it itches again, gently rubbing it should not damage anything."

We walked in silence for a few minutes before Tripod—excuse me—Jack interrupted. He gestured towards the path before us. "Is it supposed to be like this?" he wanted to know, referring to the lack of trees in our path. Even though it seemed like a stupid question, I was curious too. Seriously, everywhere else had been covered up in trees except for this area.

Jesse shrugged. I was beginning to recollect that his area of biological interest was botany since this was the second time he had lended information about plants. "It's not all that uncommon," he explained. "Many acres of land here have been destroyed so grazing land for cattle can be created. It's a bit redundant since the cows end up being slaughtered for MacDonald's anyway." He paused and looked around thoughtfully. "But I would guess that the lack of trees here can be contributed to barren soil. As you can see, there isn't much light in the area either."

"Yeah, but if that's the case," Jack persisted, "then why—"

A hand shot out of the ground.

It wasn't a normal hand. For one, it appeared to be that of a child's—a dead child's—because, for two, the hand had no flesh on it. And there wasn't just a hand. There was also a body connected to it that was desperately trying to follow the hand's lead by attempting to come up from underneath the ground. Did I mention this . . . _thing_ was pretty much decomposed save for what appeared to be rusted armor and a _sword_ of all things?

I stopped in my tracks immediately, wondering if my eyes were playing tricks on me and out of sheer terror if the eyes weren't joking at all. Some of the thing's friends were joining him as well because I saw three more hands shoot up. I had a feeling that this was going to get exponentially worse the longer we waited.

Only, Charlie didn't stop walking.

At first I thought maybe, alongside his hearing, his eyesight was going too. He had lost an eye after all. But then I noticed Maverick kept walking.

So did Vince.

So did Jesse.

Was I going psycho? What was happening? Thinking back, I should have known. I _so_ should have known.

I didn't even pause to think. I just blurted the first thing that came to mind. "Charlie, STOP!" I cried, my arm stretched out as if I could pull him back or something. I didn't know what those things were, but I had a feeling that they weren't going to be greeting us with handshakes and snicker doodles, which, despite the situation, I could so go for by the way.

It was then that everyone stopped to look at me. Mainly because I was shouting like a banshee, but whatever. One of the creatures had nearly gotten himself free. We needed to get out of there now.

"Suze, what's up?" Vince asked curiously. I noticed he didn't make an effort to speed up speech, or even walk away from the havoc I knew was about to ensue. "Do you see something?"

"_Yes_!" I blurted, unable to keep my composure any longer. "It's right in front of you!"

The four guys spun around wildly, only to spin right back, each man's expression more perplexed than the one before him. They looked around once more; satisfied nothing had been unnoticed, and stared back at me.

"Suzie," Charlie said, speaking more harshly than usual, "now isn't the time to be playing practical jokes."

No shit!

I opened my mouth to say something more, but stopped when I saw that the first creature had successfully broken free from the ground. I was so shocked, that I took a step back, but not for the reason you would think. I was shocked because the creature was actually some sort of human, or more accurately, decomposing skeleton soldiers of some kind. At that moment of realization, I looked to my side and realized that two other people hadn't moved from their spots either. And when I looked Paul in the eye, looking and pleading for assurance that I wasn't psycho, that's exactly what I got.

Because he could see them too.

There wasn't time to have a celebration of non-psychosis because the first guy that was now out of the ground lunged for Vince.

"Lucky," Paul cried, his expression both worried for his friend and engrossed in whatever it was he was about to do, "DUCK!"

Without question, Vince ducked, covering the top of his head with his arms. Paul cocked his weapon and fed a stream of bullets into the creature, causing him to explode into dust, very _Mummy_-like.

"RUN," Jack commanded. Seeing at once that we were being very serious, the guys brought their weapons out and did as they were told. Although, without knowing where _to_ run, they were already dead anyway.

"Jack," Paul ordered, as he loaded another cartridge into his gun. He had managed to obliterate another creature, but just before we could cheer in victory, more hands shot out of the ground, alerting us that we needed to get the hell out of there. "Go with Mav and Lucky. Don't turn back, just keep running. Suze'll go with Charlie, and I'll go with de Silva," he continued, giving us the go ahead. "We need to split up both our abilities to see these guys, and our groups." I guess my expression wasn't very reassuring because he added, "Don't worry, Suze, we'll meet back up, I promise. Now move out!"

None of us thought twice. As fast as we were able, we ran to catch up with the others. Jack, since he had more training, caught up first and called to his assigned group to follow him. Paul and I were a hair behind, adrenaline surging through our bodies.

Paul had managed to get to Jesse just as my foot caught on something, and, instead of tripping like I thought I would, I fell through the ground. Had I not grabbed the ledge when I did, I'd have fallen God knows how many feet. I only glanced down once, but that was all I needed to have the message permanently imprinted on my skull. The bottom was entirely black. Pitch black. I had a feeling that one slip of the hand, and adios critically acclaimed fashion designer Susannah Simon. See you . . . never again.

With a burst of strength, I had managed to support myself on one forearm before bringing my other forearm up and over the ledge. The good news was that none of the creatures had noticed me lagging behind. The other, even greater news was that for some reason, Vince was still standing in my view along with Jesse. If only I could . . .

"Vince!" I cried, outstretching my arm once more, hoping to catch his attention. "Help!"

Our eyes locked for a minute. That's all, I swear. And I knew that he saw the dangerous situation I was in. I knew it because he had made a movement towards me. A movement that indicated he was coming to my rescue. However, as he was in the process of coming towards me, Jesse cried out for help. Right on time, he hesitated before instantly firing his firearm in Jesse's direction and running away from the group of creatures that had begun chasing after him.

"VINCE!"

My heart seemed to shatter into a billion pieces. My stomach fell to what seemed my feet, and I couldn't do anything with my mouth except open and close it, uttering incoherent sounds. I could feel a tear glide down my cheek before it dropped soundlessly into the abyss below.

So that's what it boiled down to? He hadn't meant any of the things he said last night; he hadn't meant any of the promises he made _either_! He took _advantage_ of me; of our _trust_! Our marriage was a sham, and I . . . I was a fool for thinking otherwise.

"Bastard," I breathed, tears streaming from both eyes now as I fought to hold onto the ledge. I had seen many a wounded soul let go of life for even smaller reasons than an asshole of a partner. My mom, for instance, had wanted to do it after my dad had been declared dead. Kill herself, I mean. She had never voiced it, but I knew the thought had crossed her mind once or twice. She had figured there was nothing else to live for. But then she remembered me, her daughter, and she held on. She was a Simon, well, technically, an Alecksovski, but that's beside the point. I was a Simon too, and we were strong people. And I was going to be strong.

Clearly, it was not meant to be because as soon as I attempted to get out, something, or someone, began tugging on both of my legs. Rather harshly, I might add. I looked down and saw to my terror that there were about thirty of those creatures in the pit, trying to pull me down into the depths with them.

"Oh, my God," I said aloud, trying to pull myself up. I didn't even want to know what would happen if they pulled me down. "Help!" I called out again, barely able to hold on any longer.

My fears were brought to life when one of the creatures loomed overhead, his decayed mouth leering at me as if he was planning how exactly he was going to kill me. The two empty voids in the place where his eyes used to be seemed like they were trying to rip my soul from my body in one swift motion. His disturbing smile finally opened, allowing view of his grotesque, gaping mouth, and it was then that these razor sharp teeth just grew in their respected spots. Seriously. I _wish_ I was making this stuff up. But this was _all_ happening.

The creature, mouth gaping, let loose an ear curdling shriek. He raised his rusted, iron dagger into a ready position and spoke some foreign gibberish to his friends below. IN understanding, they began chattering excitedly and laughing at what was certain to be my demise. I was so scared senseless, nothing would exit my mouth. I couldn't cry for help.

The creature lunged. "EEEAAACCKK! _Mantança ela, minions_!" (TG/N: Sorry about the poor translation. The internet is so unreliable these days.)

_BAM._

My eyes had been shut, but there was no mistaking the sound of a gun being fired, if that makes any sense. But it hadn't been the _chink_, _chink_, _chink_ of a machine gun. It had been the powerful blast of either a shotgun or a sidearm.

Had Vince come back?

"A little old to be playing hide and seek, wouldn't you say?" came the voice of my mortal savior.

"A little morbid to be patronizing me before I reach my untimely death, wouldn't you say?" I retorted angrily, though, in actuality, I was scared that I wouldn't get out of the pit at all. It wasn't necessary to look up because I could pick that voice out of a crowd any day. There was a severe lack of accent in the voice, unfortunately.

"Suze, you've got to stop being so immuh—Whoa!" Another of the creatures had lunged at Paul. In one swift motion, for a scientist anyway, he whipped his sidearm out again and fired, causing the thing to explode into a cloud of dust. "Here, grab my hand," he said more urgently, offering said hand. "I've got you. Trust me."

Should I have trusted Paul? Probably not, but did it look like I had any other choice? Besides, if I hadn't accepted his hand, I had a feeling I would never have lived to see tomorrow.

So I grabbed his hand.

With what seemed like relative ease, I was lifted from that pit of death after what seemed like eternity. He grasped my shoulders, steadied me, and then began fussing over me by checking to see there was no serious damage. Satisfied, he removed his probing fingers from my face and rested his hand on my other shoulder. I looked up slowly and realized that Paul had been staring at me with an intense glimmer in his eyes. For some reason, I couldn't seem to tear my gaze away, and Paul certainly didn't seem too eager to interrupt whatever was going on between us. Something about his baby blues seemed to have a captivating magnetism over me, not allowing me to look away.

I _swear_ had we been there mere seconds more, Paul would have said something. He had even parted his lips, preparing to say something detrimental to both our well-beings. But before either of us could say anything, one of the creatures from the pit climbed out, ready to pounce at any moment. Without even having a say in the matter, Paul shielded me with himself, and fired at the thing. This time, we weren't that lucky. The bullet only managed to clip the creature's leg, causing him to stall only momentarily.

Paul, having realized this, made a jump start and grabbed my arm, forcing me to follow him. "Time to go," he said, handing me his sidearm. I guess he figured I wouldn't have had the one on me that Charlie had issued to me originally. He was dead wrong, but I took the gun anyway. It wasn't as if I was going to use it.

"Do you have any idea where we're going?" I asked frantically as my heart pounded in my throat. I've done strenuous workouts before, but my heart had never felt like it was at the point of destruction. I don't think I had ever run that hard in my entire life. Then again, I had never exactly had to run for my life from a tribe of cannibalistic, soldier zombies.

Paul, who hadn't missed a beat, continued running and dodging obstacles with a cat-like grace. I followed blindly, not dodging things quite so well and receiving the full blow of the obstacle because Paul had a grasp on my arm, not allowing me to fall behind. "Uh, not really," was his delayed response. He spun around and his eyes widened. "Shit!" He pulled out his machine gun and unleashed a couple hundred bullets worth, destroying the creature that had been only mere feet from where we were.

After the dust had settled, I nursed my elbow which had been injured thanks to Paul's little throw me to the ground scheme. "Ow," I moaned, glaring up at Paul. "What the hell was that for?"

Paul looked down at me and offered his hand to me anxiously. "I just saved your life. The least you could do is thank me for once."

"No way. I am in no position to keep traveling."

"Suze, stop being a baby, get up off that attractive ass, and let's go," he urged. "There's no telling when those creeps'll pop up again."

"_Paul_," I emphasized, "I am not leaving this spot. Just leave me here to die. Life's not worth living anyway—did you just . . . did you just compliment my _ass_?"

"That," Paul replied, unable to hide his infectious smile, "is beside the point. Did _you_ just ask me to leave you here to die? I risked my neck, twice now, to keep that ass alive. I'll do no such thing."

Ignoring his observation, I remarked smartly, "You miss it, don't you? My ass I mean, in all its crowning glory?"

Paul's smile was interrupted by that same screech that had been heard earlier. The one that usually foreshadowed the appearance of the creepy soldier things.

"If you won't move, then I'll make you move," Paul threatened before promptly throwing me over his shoulders, and running, as if we hadn't stopped moving at all, or as if he hadn't just picked me, age thirty six, fully capable of handling herself, up against my will. I didn't bother saying anything, mainly because I _had_ been quite the annoyance. Well, that wasn't entirely true, seeing as how I was the greatest asset to this whole party. I was just being an ass with the whole "Uhh, just leave me here to die" attitude.

By thirty-six, I had succeeded in following my vow of never again acting as childish as I had twenty years ago. So much drama had followed back in those days, and it was just something I hadn't wanted to repeat itself. And there I was, screwing it up already. Just because Vince had, essentially, divorced me didn't mean I could act like a complete baby. Where had that concrete exterior of mine gone that saved me during the period of my life when my dad was gone?

"Paul, one of those—things is behind us!" I informed my form of transportation. "What should we do?"

"You've got a gun. Shoot it!" he spat, not stopping at all. No matter how fast he ran, the creature continued to gain on us, its legs taking gargantuan leaps; its eye sockets sucking the life from within. I could even feel Paul slowing down some.

"Paul," I questioned, "why are you slowing down?"

"I don't," he stuttered, bewilderment laced through his tone, "I don't know. It's like I can't—like I can't _move_."

EEEEAAAAAA!

I screamed, scared out of my mind as the thing lunged. I jammed my eyes shut and pulled the trigger, preparing for the best. I could almost feel the touch of dust spray my face lightly.

_Click._

I pulled the trigger again.

_Click._

. . . SO not good.

"We—are—in—serious—trouble," I muttered, mostly to myself because if Paul knew we were out of ammunition while a creature was in mid attack, I had a feeling he wouldn't handle it so well. Hell, I knew _I_ wasn't handling it so well. Even worse, thanks to Paul having thrown me over his shoulder like a sack of chicken feed, I couldn't manage to reach my own sidearm I was issued because it was in one of the back pockets of my shorts.

"Ohmygod, Paul, RUN FASTER!" I cried helplessly as I could only stare from my awkward position at the creature gaining on us.

"Suze," Paul panted, using that tone of voice cops use when they're talking to the crazies. You know the type, slow and very articulate so as to get the point across faster, "we've been over this before. I am pushing as hard as I can just to keep this pace up. Something is keeping me from moving. Use the—"

Paul's lecture was interrupted by my anguished cry. The creature had attempted to destroy Paul, but had missed, and instead, ended up scratching pretty deeply through my back. The feeling of its razor sharp claws still seemed to linger, and I tried to suppress the tears that tried to force their way through. I could taste the blood in my mouth from where I had bitten my lip in the attempt to keep quiet. The pain, mixed with my emotional draught, was almost unbearable. I couldn't do this anymore. I didn't _want_ to do this anymore.

"SUZE!" Paul cried in concern. I could tell he was going to put me down to make an analysis of the damage. However, before he could do so, there was a strong impact, and I found myself face down on the ground with something extremely heavy on top of me. I grunted in pain. My back was killing me.

"Jesse?" I heard Paul say. "What are you doing here? Where's Lucky? Where's Jack? Charlie? Maverick?"

The weight from my body was slowly removed, and with my new found ability to move, I looked around. Apparently Jesse and Paul had bumped into each other at the intersection of the two different paths they had exited. I turned over wanting to get a better grasp on my surroundings; however, I had forgotten about my back and almost instantly regretted the move when pain surged through my back.

Never had I been happier at the sight of Jesse in my entire life. He never had the chance to reply to Paul's inquiries, or, if he did, I didn't hear him because another creature's cry was heard.

"I'll explain on the way, _amigos_," Jesse said eagerly, offering an assisting hand which I took gratefully. "Come now. We must leave this place."

Sure enough the sound of rustling tree leaves and hissing could be heard getting louder and louder. We began running as fast as possible down the lone, cleared path before us. Despite the fact that we were being chased by homicidal creatures of the underworld, the running took the pain from my back and emotions and forced it into my legs which were burning due to the excess movement.

"So where is everybody, de Silva?" Paul asked again, narrowly dodging an uprooted tree root.

"We were split up about thirty minutes before I bumped into you," Jesse explained, holding a branch back for me. "Jack and Maverick headed off in one direction; Vince and Charlie in another."

"Vince and Charlie?" I asked incredulously, taking a moment to look behind me. "By themselves? But they'll die without being able to see these things!"

Before Paul could utter a "Relax, Suze," I noticed a huge group of creatures had pretty much caught up to us at this point. Plus, Jesse had spoken.

"That brings me to my next point: what exactly are we running from?" he asked.

Before answering him, I swirled around, grabbed my extra gun, jammed my eyes shut, and pulled the trigger, hoping for the best. When I opened my eyes, I detected the faintest trace of dust, and saw that two soldier creatures had been done away with. Despite myself, I couldn't help but smile. Nice shooting, Tex.

"See?" Jesse yelled as I stashed my gun back in its place. "What in _hell_ was that? Who—what was she shooting at?"

Paul was just about ready to explain what was going on (at least, what we knew thus far which was basically nothing) when his eyes widened in horror. I followed his gaze and realized just what kind of trouble we were in. Behind us, a handful of creatures were catching up to us while dozens of their associates were jumping out of trees lining the barren path to join the attack. The only good thing that came from the realization was that the pain in my back and legs had been momentarily forgotten.

"No time to explain, buddy," Paul said, picking up speed. "We need to motor."

And motor we did. The three of us ran as fast as humanly possible, conserving as much ammunition as possible. We realized that killing was not an option because these creatures kept coming back, and in greater numbers. Besides, I only had four bullets left, if my calculations were correct, and Paul was on his last cartridge. What we needed was to somehow escape the beings, and since there weren't too many trees around, the task was becoming a little difficult. However, we needed to come up with a back up plan quickly because running for our lives wasn't going to keep us alive much longer. My calves were killing me, my nose was runny, and my heart felt as if it were just going to burst out of my chest at any moment. I didn't know how the others were fairing, but I knew that if I couldn't stop any time soon, I was seriously going to die.

No matter how much zigzagging and dodging we did, there was just no getting away from those things. We had even bigger fish to fry when a fork in the path met our frantic gaze.

"Which way do we go?" Jesse asked. If I wasn't much mistaken, he sounded as tired as I felt.

Paul took a quick glance behind him to evaluate the situation at hand. Without hesitation he replied, "We split up."

"When?" Jesse wanted to know, as did I.

Paul shook his head. "Not yet," he commanded. "Wait until the fork gets closer."

I looked at him like he was crazy, and had I not been so tired, I would have made some smart aleck-y comment. I found it hard to believe that he didn't realize that we were only a couple yards away from the splitting point. Any closer and we would run straight into the tree up ahead. Apparently, however, it didn't matter to Paul because he kept on moving, and like good slaves should, we followed the master.

"How much longer do you plan on waiting?" Jesse voiced as if he had just been reading my mind. Perhaps there was more to the ESP thing as Paul had suggested. Then again, maybe not.

Paul gestured with his hand and said, "Any minute now, just hold on."

Wanting very much to trust Paul, I tried to keep my mouth shut, but failed miserably. "Yeah, but, Paul," I heard myself saying, "we are coming in very close, and if you wait too long, then we're going to end up on that tree, most likely dead."

"Did anyone ever tell you that your pessimistic, Doubting-Thomas outlook on life just adds to your charm?" Paul managed to ask. Apparently all this running hadn't affected his ability to mock. Figures. "Just relax, I've got it all planned."

"Slater—"

"Not yet," he growled, somehow picking up speed. I was about to die, and he was going _faster_?

The tree was becoming larger with each step. The cries of the creatures behind us were increasing in volume as they relentlessly gained on us. "Paul, please," I begged, "do _something_."

"Not _yet_," he stressed, still running as fast as ever. The tree. The creatures. My stammering heartbeat. Everything coming closer and closer and closer and closer and closer—

"PAUL!"

"NOW!"

Without even realizing what I was doing, I jammed my eyes shut and veered to the right, hoping against hope that I hadn't ended up by myself. As life would have it, I had ended up with Paul which meant that Jesse was all by himself. Somehow, this was a worse prospect than me being by myself.

"Paul," I breathed, straining just to keep up, "Jesse's all by himself again. He won't be able to see the creature things."

Paul looked at me, startled, but relieved at the same time. "Don't worry about de Silva," he said, "he can take care of his own skin. Right now, we need to be on the lookout for somewhere to hide. I'm running my balls off, here."

I was too tired to be disgusted. Actually, I was too tired to do much of anything, let alone think. That's why it came as a surprise to me when I felt myself being violently shoved off the main path. At first I thought it was one of the creatures, but then I found myself being crushed beneath Paul. After he had shoved me out of "harm's" way, he decided it would be fitting to just dive out of the way and on top of me. When he landed, I let out a strained, "Oomph!"

The good news was that there wasn't much time to bask in the complete awkwardness of the situation. Almost as soon as we had made contact, Paul was up and off of me. He now had his back flat against this massive stone structure. In one step, he had pulled my arm, causing me to be flush up against the stone structure as well.

"Paul," I wondered aloud, pulling away from the wall, and rubbernecking so I could see what was going on with the main path and the creatures, "what the hell is going on—?"

"Shh!" he hissed, pushing me back up against the wall, only he sort of touched my boobs in the process. I was pretty sure he was aiming for my stomach . . . at least, I hoped so, however, fact of the matter was that he had, um, touched them.

"Paul," I whispered frantically. I felt a bead of sweat slide down my face as I shifted uncomfortably. I mean, it was just _resting_ there on my chest. I think I had a right to be sweating for an entirely different reason.

"_Suze_," he pleaded quietly, his face still forward, looking out for the creatures, "shut it!"

I bit my lip and glanced at the bizarre scene before me. I had to say something. Before I could, however, an entire hoard of soldier zombie-things came swinging and running down the main path, bypassing us entirely. Hopefully, I prayed, that was how it would stay.

This was how it was for a couple minutes. A huge amount of creatures made their way down the main forest floor while Paul and I hid to the side; his hand on my boobs. Finally, the path had cleared. The only problem was that Paul was still on the look out and he hadn't exactly relinquished his hand's position on me.

"Paul," I tried again.

"_Quiet_!" he commanded, still keeping a watchful eye.

I sighed. This was just stupid. "Paul," I hissed again, "your hand is on my chest."

This statement triggered a reaction. He whipped his head around lightning fast, and protested, "_What_?" Then, for whatever reason, he looked down and realized what I was talking about. "Oh God," he uttered, before lifting his hand away as if he had just touched a Bunsen burner. "Sorry. I'm so sorry," he apologized repeatedly.

I ignored him, feeling that it would be better if I didn't make a huge deal of it. Besides, I was pretty sure I had just imagined the ghost of a grin on his face. Silently, I placed a hand over my rapidly beating heart and breathed in and out, trying very much to replenish my air supply. I had a feeling that in a minute's time, the hyperventilating would commence. Paul took a page from my book and closed his eyes as he rested. Somehow, he seemed much less worked up about the situation than I was.

"What were those things, Paul?" I asked, interrupting our serene silence. The question had to be asked. Not even when being a mediator, er, I mean, shifter meant something to me did I ever see freaky shit like that before. I thought I had left all that behind me. In fact, I had been _praying_ that that was the situation.

Paul took the moment to open the eye closest to me and turn his head just the tiniest bit towards my direction. "It had to have been ghosts," he answered, assuring my fears had been realized.

"No," I breathed out quietly, almost to the point of being inaudible. Even though I had my suspicions, somehow hearing it out loud made it so much worse. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. "They can't be ghosts," I declared, as if making a point.

This time Paul took the initiative of opening the other eye as well, and he turned so he was facing me entirely. I paid him the same courtesy. "Think about it. There's no other explanation. The only ones who saw the things were you, Jack, and I. It just seems a little much for coincidence considering we're all mediators or—aw, come on, Suze, I said I was sorry," Paul apologized once more, mistaking my tears for something else entirely.

Yeah, you read that correctly. Tears. I, Susannah Simon, world renowned fashion icon and all time bad-ass was crying. One minute I was perfectly dry, and the next, the water works kicked in. I am so not even kidding. The word 'asshole' didn't even describe how I felt. It was the most embarrassing thing ever, especially considering the one witness to the whole situation was Paul.

"No," I managed to say, swiping at the tears sliding down my cheeks, "it's not that. It's just—"

And then I launched into this major babble session about how I hadn't seen a ghost in approximately twenty years, and how this wasn't supposed to be happening. I continued by adding what Vince had done to me hours earlier, and how me playing second fiddle gave me insecurities about the foundation of our marriage. Was it a sham? Was I being too hard on him about the whole thing? My job was brought up too, and the stress that came along with it in the form of worrying if I'd get the spring sketches in on time, and whether or not Gisele Bündchen would renew her contract with us. All the while, my nose was so mucus filled, and my voice got all nasally while my eyes got all sore from all the crying I had done. As if that weren't bad enough, I then got into the subject of my father.

"—probably sounds heartless, but I'm not even sure I want to rescue my father. He was almost never there for me, and for that I despise him, and I'm conflicted because when I really think about it, I don't think I hate him as much as I want to which gets me even angrier because I _want_ to hate him, but none of this even really matters because we can't do anything since we have no idea where the rest of our group is as well as where Dad could possibly be, and even though the thought of Vince makes me so mad, I can't help hoping that he's not dead and with the other guys—"

Finally, I was interrupted by a sharp sting to the face. Paul grasped my shoulders and said as loudly as he could in the conditions we were in, "Sorry, but, Suze! Get a _grip_ on yourself!"

I reached a hand up to touch my cheek. "That hurt, jackass," I said, sniffing. Then the weirdest thing happened. I found myself smiling so widely it hurt, and then I was off in hysterics. Really, all I could do _was_ laugh. I had been so sappy, plus, I would bet my life that Paul hadn't understood one word that came out of my mouth. I don't even think _I_ understood anything that had exited my mouth. After Paul had cracked a smile and a good two minutes had passed, I breathed out calmly, letting my laughter subside into silence.

Paul ripped the bandana off of his head, an amused expression on his face, and used it to gently dab the tears away from under my eyes. "You need a vacation, Simon," he said, only half-joking. "You're a total whack-job."

I punched him in the arm. "Shut up," I demanded, mentally paying him back for the slap.

"Ow," Paul moaned, massaging his upper arm and standing all at the same time. He held out his hand. "You know, you're just lucky you have a good friend like me"

I snorted, but took his proffered hand anyway. "Friend?" I asked. "No, Paul. You and I?" I shook my head. "We'll never be _friends_."

Paul's smirk slowly faded and was replaced with an expression of neutrality. His gaze drifted to the ground and stayed there for a good couple of minutes before lifting up once more. Only this time, after perusing the area around us, his expression changed from one of neutrality to bemusement.

I frowned and turned around, trying to focus on whatever had gotten Paul in a mood. "What?" I finally pondered, having unsuccessfully searched.

Instead of speaking, he shook his finger at something in the distance. "I've seen that somewhere before," he stated before promptly getting up and walking towards the heart of the forest. I tried to follow his direction, but still didn't see what he was talking about. Not wanting to miss out, I scrambled to my feet and followed him.

"You've seen what?" I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

"_That_," Paul proclaimed.

I followed his finger and finally witnessed what Paul was talking about. On the tree before us was some sort of symbol painted in what appeared to be dried blood. The symbol looked like squiggly circle divided into four parts. In the upper left hand corner were a less than sign and a greater than sign next to each other, points touching. Above and below the signs were thin lines no longer than the two signs in length. In the bottom left hand corner was a very poorly drawn lion, almost like that of Rafiki's in _The Lion King_. The bottom right hand corner had a palm print, and the upper right hand corner had a squiggly circle with a less than sign on it. I stared at it puzzled. Where Paul had seen this before, I had no freakin' clue.

Suddenly, I saw Paul's eyes light up. "Suze," he called out, "give me the note from Pete."

"What?" I asked, not expecting the question at all. "Why?"

Paul grunted and then held his hand out. "Just give it to me, damn it."

I fished the note out of my back pocket and pulled it out. "Since you asked soooo nicely, sire."

He rolled his eyes and snatched the paper from my fingers. He looked from the paper to the tree, to the paper once more. After a final look, a smile spread a cross his face. One that was really hard to miss.

"What?" I asked again. This seemed to be the question of the day. I couldn't seem to stop uttering it.

"Take a look," Paul said, motioning me over with his hand. I walked to where he was standing. "See the pictures on this slip of paper?"

I nodded, briefly recalling when I noticed it back in the hospital. I still didn't see what he was getting at. "So?" I felt the need to remark.

He pointed a long finger at the tree in front of us. "Now look at the tree."

I did as I was told, and nearly fainted on the spot. What it meant, I had no idea, but it wasn't hard to put two and two together. It had to mean _something_.

Because was it really a coincidence that both the note and the tree had the _exact_ same symbol on them?

God, I hoped not.

* * *

**YESSSSSSS! That's how I feel right now getting this up. I have been wanting to update this story since forever, and now it has finally happened. I feel like stripping down and running about in excitement . . . but I won't because I can handle myself. If you have the time, pop on over and read The Shifter: Shadowland, also written by yours truly.**

**I really hope you all enjoy this story as much as I do. Remember, reviews are rad, and also, alliteration is awesome.**

**The General**

**P**ost**S**cript: I apologize for all the grammar errors. I was just so psyched to get this beast up and running.


	8. Tears for Fears

**TG/N: I'm not the biggest fan of this chapter. Something about it is just . . . off, I guess. But what the hey, in three days it will be one year exactly that this story has been posted, which just goes to show you that I am very, very slow when it comes to updating. Also, apologies, as always, for poor spelling and grammar. Tell me what you think, and enjoy.**

"So what do you think this . . . thing means?" I found myself asking him. Paul, I mean.

I was hoping he could provide some answers because I had none whatsoever. I was so tired and full of pain that I just wanted someone to assure me everything would turn out hunky-dory in the end just like my parents would say to me when I was scared that Satan would possess me too. I had seen _The Exorcist_ one too many times: bad decision on my part and totally beside the point.

Our topic of conversation hadn't changed; we were still talking about the symbol, nor had our choice of path which consisted of the repetitive dodging trees and swatting away cougar-sized insects. Time seemed to drag on as we walked for what had to be hours. Seeing as how our search had been fruitless, I had lost any ambition I once had. Accepting facts just seemed easier than false hopes; a lesson I had learned twenty-two years ago. There was no denying that our group was—excuse my French—fucked three ways till Sunday (what day was it anyway?). I was just embracing the fact that I would die stranded in the middle of nowhere with no sense of pride or dignity. And, oh yeah, besides the recent (or had I been blind all those years?) development of a shammed marriage, I was going to die along side one of the people I despised most in this world: Paul. It was just one punch in the face after another. And really, I was just in too much pain to resist.

"Not _what_, Suze," Paul corrected using his authoritative voice, "but _when_."

Did I ever mention Paul was a teacher? Well, a professor actually. That's how he had managed to perfect the "Teacher Voice". You know the kind. Anyway, he taught at some school out in Washington state, and has actually gained quite some recognition. Apparently, he was part of this discover that found some new species or whatever, and since his good looks have never exactly hurt his career, some speculations were made that he might be competing with my father's prestige in the science world. As much as I wanted the best of everything for my good friend Paul (not), I kind of hope he won't surpass my father. Dad deserved some sort of memorial even if he was a jerk.

I sighed and rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. "When? What the _hell_ are you talking about?"

"We need the 'when', Suze," he reiterated, holding a branch out of my way, "as in _when_ was the symbol put on that tree. The 'when' could make the difference."

"Oh, yeah?" I questioned, swatting what had to be the fiftieth mosquito away. "How so?"

Paul, thoroughly enjoying this teacher/student banter, tried to suppress a grin. "Let's say this symbol has been on that tree for years, centuries even. Then chances are it can be of no further value to us, and it was probably put there as some sort of religious symbol of the Waorani people or some other jungle dwelling people. If, however, the symbol was placed there recently, as I suspect it was, then that means it was painted on as a sort of guideline or landmark. Pete obviously had knowledge of the symbol since it's drawn on his note." He paused. "Do you want to hear my theory?"

I rolled my eyes. He was milking this for all it was worth. "Of course," I assured, not caring how much sarcasm dripped through.

"My guess," he explained, "is that Pete is using the symbol as a clue to help us along. Now, until we see another one, my theory can't be proved true, but I think it's a respectable hunch."

I nodded. Sure, it seemed ludicrous, but if you would have told me last week that I would be wandering around the heart of the Amazon searching for my father, I would have thought that was crazy too. "When you say 'recently'," I asked, referring to his previous statement, "how long ago?"

"Fifteen, twenty years."

"That's not recently," I challenged. "Besides even if, and I am stressing 'if', your hunch is right, how do we even know that the symbols will lead to the right place? What if he has moved or something?"

Paul stopped moving and turned towards me. He took a hold of my shoulders, shaking his head. "Suze, Suze, Suze. You have got to start having more faith." He took my chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting it so I was forced to look at him directly. "If you keep living this life full of cynicism, you are going to end up angry and alone. That's no way for Suze Simon to end up."

"That—" I began, swatting his hand away and ignoring how recent events made his statement very, very true. "—may very well be, but the fact remains that I have to protect myself somehow."

"Suze," Paul said in a voice soaked with concern, "you're not all powerful."

He spoke with such sincerity, that it took all I had in me to not cry. Why was it that Paul was such a jackass, and yet, he took it upon himself to be nice to me when I felt as if nothing positive would ever again happen in my life?

"I know." For once in my life, I didn't let my pride get the best of me. "That's why," I continued, "it makes it all the more important that I reach 'all powerful' status." Dwelling on my weak status made me shake my head and laugh in disbelief. "It's pathetic really," I admitted. "I am a world renowned fashionista with, literally, an entire working empire. I'm thirty-six. I have a good forty to go, and yet I still can't get over what happened twenty-two years ago. Something that happened when I was fourteen still has me making up stupid scenarios just so I don't ever get hurt again."

"Suze," Paul said, "you lost your father. No one blames you for taking it like you did. Besides, I challenge anyone to handle it better than you have."

I looked up at Paul and noticed he wasn't smiling. Why did he have to be so nice when I was feeling so vulnerable? "Thank you," I finally managed to get out. "That means a lot."

Paul shrugged and threw me a casual glance. "Don't get too used to it."

I nudged him playfully. "No, I'm totally serious," I said. "That was very nice."

He stopped walking once again and turned towards me. "Aw, are you going to cry?" he mocked, utilizing the pouty lips. "Do you need a tissue?"

"Ugh." I punched him in the arm, unable to hide my smile. "Asshole," I spat.

We were silent for a long time, it seemed. I took a hand and wiped the perspiration that had formed on my forehead. The heat would not have been that bad had the humidity been in check. It was not, however. Walking through the trees was like walking through a sauna, just minus all the essential things that make a trip to the sauna an enjoyable experience.

Besides the heat and the insects, it wasn't too bad traveling in the South American jungle. Actually, that was a lie. The scratches on my back had begun to pulsate in the last half hour, and when I had felt a wet sensation, I realized that they were bleeding pretty consistently. Not only that, but the pain was almost unbearable. We didn't have any medical supplies, so unless we saw—_if_ we saw—Jesse again, my back remained untreated.

"Hey, Suze—"

Oh, boy.

"—when, well, I mean, if you see Vince again, what are you going to do, or you know, say?"

There it was. The question I dreaded. The question that was bound to come up. The question I did not have the answers to. And wouldn't it figure that the question came from the mouth of Paul Slater? I love life.

I laughed nervously and pushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "Uh . . . well, gee. I, um, haven't really thought about it that much." I paused and watched as an ant crawled across my shoe. "I guess a few rounds of glaring might suffice," I joked. There was no way I was talking to Paul Slater about my love life. Joking was a form of defense. Because inside, I was breaking.

"I'm sure there is an explanation for what he did," Paul said seriously. Damn him for being so serious.

"Oh," I said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, "I'm sure there is. I can't _wait_ to hear it."

"I'm serious," he protested.

_So am I_. That's what I wanted to say. But I only got out "Ss—" before a spark of red light caught my eye. Naturally, our conversation had to switch.

"Did you see that?" I asked frantically, craning my neck to see if there was any more of the red light. Sadly, there was not.

"No. What was it?" he asked.

"It was—" I kept looking around for the light. "—it was a red light or-or a flash or—there! There it is again!"

Paul turned. This time, I saw where the light had originated. It almost looked like—

"That's a flare," Paul affirmed. "I'm almost sure of it—HEY! OVER HERE!"

There was no reply. "Try it again," I commanded, frozen in my spot.

He cleared his throat, put his fingers in his mouth, and whistled so loudly it echoed. "OVER HERE! CAN YOU HEAR US?"

There was no reply, but another flare went off. I look at Paul; he looked at me. We both shrugged. After a couple hours filled with wandering in the jungle, we were willing to take what we could.

We ran and ran, and the destination seemed no closer than before. Inwardly, I found myself cursing for having hope that the red light had mean safety. Why wasn't I more cynical, damn it? I was just going to get hurt.

It was while I was mourning our loss that I tripped over a rock and fell flat on my face. That rock must have been pretty huge because I heard Paul hit the ground beside me too. Then came the sound of something one should never have to hear in their entire life: the cock of a gun.

As it was, the rock happened to be two feet. Someone had tripped us. The owner of the feet made himself know. Although, not until after I let out a slew of obscenities. That had hurt.

"Ow," I uttered, biting back any crying that might have commenced.

"Suze?"

"Yeah, it's Suze," I responded, lifting myself up and spitting out a leaf that had gotten into my mouth. I hadn't recognized the voice due to being in so much pain. "Who the hell else would it be?"

"Sorry," the voice apologized. "We set off those flares and then fast paced running started. We thought we startled a herd of cheetahs or something."

_We_?

"You did well, Jack," I heard Paul say from his spot beside me. "Real well. Only—let me ask you something—were you planning on tripping the cheetahs too? Huh, dickhead? I've got a bruise the size of your ass which, consequently, is where I believe your thought process occurs. Now help me up, or I will knock your face in, _capiche_?"

Instead of looking threatened, Jack Slater frowned, grunted, and held his hand out for his older brother. I, on the other hand, accepted Maverick's offer for help, and, surprisingly, he was able to help me up without straining a muscle. Perhaps not enough credit was given to the guy.

"Thanks," I said hastily to Maverick, brushing the loose sediments off me. Not that it really mattered since most of the sediment was attached to my sticky, sweaty body. I needed a bath severely. To Jack, I said, "I am certain your brother meant to say 'thank you for not shooting us' and 'where are the others?'"

"The others are at the camp we set up about .68 miles from here," Maverick answered for Jack. The fact that he knew the location down to a hundredth of a mile sort of amazed and scared me at the same time. "There is a lake near by, so if you want to clean up, you're welcome to it."

"Yeah," Paul snorted, "you wish. She's married, you know?"

Maverick had the decency to blush in embarrassment. I elbowed Paul in the stomach for being so crass. Jack nodded in approval and smiled at me when Paul bent over and clutched at his stomach. I winked at him and smiled back.

"Sorry about that, Maverick," I apologized on Paul's behalf. "As you were saying?"

"Um, yes, as I was saying," Maverick spoke hastily, "we are going to conquer the lake tomorrow since it is so vast. It narrows into a stream, apparently, but that will take a long time to reach, hours even. We figured it's easier to set up camp now before it gets dark."

"Let's hop to it then," I found myself saying. I cringed. The heat was making me talk stupid, apparently.

**+SS+**

There he was. Balancing on the balls of his feet near the lake's edge. He was shaving, and I had been watching him for a good ten minutes. Not that he realized this, of course, because I had hidden myself behind some ferns. I know the act sounded stupid and juvenile, but I wanted to prepare myself mentally before I talked to Vince for the first time since he abandoned me and left me for dead.

You see, it was statements like that that caused me to be hiding behind some ferns, mentally preparing myself in the first place. I wanted our exchanged to be mature and adult-like. Because as I stared at the bastard who left me to die on the lake's outer banks, I realized that I still loved him. And that thought made me suggest that I just forgive him and get over it. Not this time, though. I wasn't some trophy wife. This abandoning issue had become a serious problem in our relationship.

I took a deep breath and left my hiding spot. I walked down to where Vince was. He had by that time finished shaving and was rinsing his razor off. When he saw me, he immediately stood up and wiped any excess shaving cream off his face and onto his shorts.

"I, uh," he spoke; his southern twang thick and full of foreboding. His navy blue eyes seemed darker than usual, "don't like hair growing on my face. If I have a beard, I look almost exactly like my father. I don't, uh, want the memory of him in my life."

"Huh," I stared up at him, my face expressionless, "is that so? That's interesting."

Then, I guess because my anger sort of outweighed my curiosity (so _that's_ why he always shaves) and my sympathy (he was as affected by his dad as I was mine), I slapped him as hard as I could. The _crack_ of my hand on his skin died slowly, acting as an unnecessary reminder of what I did. Since his skin was already irritated, the slap had caused a light pink blush to spread across his face.

Vince turned his head back towards me and was silent for a moment. "I deserved that," he said pointedly, acknowledging that, yes, he was a part of our problem.

I bit the inside of my lip and nodded, unable to speak. I slapped him again.

The light pink blush was now a little darker; the faint outline of a palm was visible. Once again, he turned his head back towards me and just stared. He didn't even reach a hand up to rub the point of contact like I would have.

"I probably deserved that one too," Vince admitted once again. He wasn't supposed to be taking it like this. He was supposed to say or do something ignorant so that my hate would grow, not dwindle into disappointment that he hadn't chosen me first.

I nodded again, and this time, a single tear slid down my cheek. I slapped him a third time. Well, more like tried to slap him. This time Vince was ready, and when I tried he grabbed my wrist.

"Suze . . ." he said, still staring straight into my eyes, which meant he had see the tear, or rather, tears that were now slowly exiting my eyes. Why was I crying again?

I wrenched my arm out of his grasp and batted the tears away angrily. This was not the way things were supposed to go down.

"Vince, I said quietly, "you left me when I truly needed you at my side."

"Darlin'," he coaxed, making his way closer to me, "I can explain."

"You left me for DEAD!" I shouted, raising my voice for the first time since we had been there.

Vince stopped moving. He was now silent, and he tore his gaze from mine to rest it on the ground. "Jesse was in trouble," he muttered, as if it was the only thing he could say.

"Oh," I said, unable to stop glaring, "that's the brakes, huh?"

"No, that's not what I meant," Vince reiterated, lifting his gaze to mine once more and braving the walk closer to me. I allowed it. "I came after you first, but then some huge organism that looked like a bat with a fifty foot wing span blocked my path. You're a strong woman. I figured you could take care of yourself, so I went after Jesse."

I scoffed. For a scientist, his logic made no sense sometimes. _I figured you could take care of yourself_? I was in a ditch being pulled to my death. How do you save yourself from that?

"Jesse's not your partner though, is he?" I asked incredulously. "What about me? What about your _wife_? Ever stop to think that maybe I needed your help? That's why I got married, so I would have a partner who would always have my back." I paused and, even though I didn't want to, I asked, "What are you telling me? Is our marriage a sham?"

"Of course not!" Vince blurted. He was stock still. "Look, that . . . _thing_ was in my way, and I didn't want to risk—"

"_Vincent_!" I cried, not even believing my ears. I never called him by his entire first name. "Sometimes I am worth the risk!"

Then, before I could start crying again, I ran back towards camp, ignoring Vince's calls.

**+SS+**

"How does it look, Jesse?"

It was dusk, and, not only was there a fire going, but I had asked Jesse to examine my back wounds. I didn't know where Vince was, and the others were who knows where. Vince and I weren't talking; or rather I wasn't talking to him. Having realized he was not exactly my favorite persona at the moment, Vince had kept his distance, thankfully. There was no way I could face him again this evening. Even the fact that we had to share the same tent had me all jittery, and not in the good way. Maybe I could bunk with Jack and Charlie . . .

"Not too good, _querida_," Jesse explained after inhaling sharply. "These scratches are dug in fairly deeply. _Ay_, what happened?"

"Well," I began, lifting my hair up so he could do whatever he had to do to the scratches, "while we were running away from those creatures, my running partner, Slater, decided it would be humorous to throw me over his shoulder and carry me like so while he ran. Then, of course, one of the creatures lunged at us, came up too short, and settled for scratching my back instead. Nice, huh?"

Jesse made a sound of disapproval, and I had to wonder why in the world I had never dated him. Of the three guys, he was the nicest, most chivalrous, and most humble one. But of course not. I had to choose the two bad apples of the group because Jesse had always been too shy. And as nice as he was, I, stupidly, wanted a confident, outgoing fellow. Plus, how much of a whore does that make me if I would have dated and slept with all of my friends? Yeah, not exactly impressive. Somewhere, my mother is shedding tears at the thought.

I heard Jesse laugh, and then he spoke. "So this is Slater's fault, then?"

Since my back was facing him, I turned my head the farthest it would go, and retorted, "Yeah, pretty much."

"Hand me the antiseptic." I did as Jesse asked and unhooked my bra not only because it was digging into the wounds, but I didn't want antiseptic on it. Plus, I trusted Jesse. "I do not know why the two of you cannot settle your differences and act like adults. It is not difficult."

I sighed. "It's much more difficult than you think."

"Come on, Susannah," he continued, twisting off the cap to the antiseptic bottle, "you are much stronger than petty arguing. You are better than that, I know." He paused. "Well, except at my tenth birthday party. There is no sugar coating the fact that you ran around the backyard entirely naked."

I could hardly believe my ears. "Shut up!" I protested, laughing wildly. "I was only four, Jesse! And they call you a gentleman. Shame on you."

I could almost feel him smile. "Nineteen seventy-three was the year of lowered standards, I think," he said boldly.

"Oh, well, thanks, Jesse," I said, only half being serious. "I guess that means I am going to redact my invita—DAMN IT!"

"Shh, shh," Jesse calmed, resting a hand on my shoulder to keep me still. He had, obviously, used the antiseptic on my back. Sure enough, no matter how hard I prepared myself, it still hurt like hell. "Now what were you going to say?"

"Forget it now!" I spat. "My back feels as if it's going to fall off."

We waited awhile until the pain subsided. There was a silence, but as I was starting to learn: silences are never awkward in the jungle. There is always background noise whether it is insects, or birds, or four-footed mammals. It's like an all night club or something.

I exhaled slowly, making sure all the pain had fled. "Now," I said, keeping any sort of suffering out of my voice, "what I was going to say was if we ever get back to the states, you, Mercedes, and even the kids are invited to the ranch. After this trip to Hell, I feel like I sort of need a break."

"Offer accepted. Here wrap this around your front," Jesse said. He was referring to the large piece of gauze that would wrap around me a good two or more times just in case the wounds bled again. "Only thing is," he said as I did what he asked, "we will probably leave the kids with the _abuelos_. Gabriela has the flue, so she can't very well travel. There, done."

"Thanks," I said, reattaching my bra. I pulled my shirt over my head as well. "But, uh, you know, whatever works out best for you. It was really nice talking to you, Jesse. Don't go another twenty-two years without doing it again."

Jesse smiled. "I agree, _querida_, but there's one more thing I wanted to ask you."

"Yeah?" I was distracted as I watched the fire. Where was everyone else?

"What about your husband?" he finally asked.

My stomach fell to the floor. Why this question? Why now? Didn't I have the right to be angry at my husband? Besides, after six years of basic neutrality, weren't one of these huge blow ups bound to happen?

"What ab—" I said, but was interrupted by one Paul Slater.

"De Silva, Simon, let's go. We're packing up early," he said frantically. There were three bags in his hand. Two of them were thrown at us.

A little "oomph" was forced out of me as my bag/backpack hit my stomach full force. Jesse caught his bag as well. What was going on? Apparently I was not alone. Jesse wanted to know as well.

"There are some weird sounds coming from the lake," Paul explained to us. Though his answer might have sounded eccentric, I could kind of understand where he was coming from. "Judging by today's events, some pretty freaky stuff shit has happened in this jungle," he stated, nervously looking around him. "I don't want to risk any danger considering how dark it is. Let's go."

Not being one to follow someone else's lead, I protested, "Now hold on just a minute—!"

Paul grabbed my arm and began pulling me along. "Now's not really the time to complain. This is something serious," he scolded.

Not really having the energy to resist, I went along willingly. Besides, I had finally bathed, so what right did I have to complain? Paul brought us to the central point of our tiny camp area. He was right. It was so pitch black that only with the assistance of Jesse's flashlight was I able to see the rest of our group just barely. In what seemed like perfect harmony, six other flashlights clicked on, one after the other. I ignored the fact that, once more, I had been left out and listened carefully as the others engaged in tactic talk. Besides the usual sounds that occurred, there was absolutely nothing strange sounding. Why was everyone in a tizzy?

"Here."

I looked up and noticed Vince was holding his hand out to me. In it was a flashlight. I stared at his hand, then at him, but didn't say a single word. I could do this for weeks.

"Look," he said kind of annoyed, placing the flashlight in my hand and folding my fingers over, so it wouldn't fall, "I don't care that yer not talkin' to me, but yer still gonna need one of these. It's impossible to maneuver without it."

Thankfully, he walked over to where Paul was standing and immersed himself in conversation. As I looked around, a shiver ran down my spine. Just standing around in such a vulnerable spot had me just a little antsy. So what if I hadn't heard anything? That didn't mean _nothing_ could happen. It was just as I walked over to where Jack was standing to talk to him when I heard it. The sound of danger, I mean.

It started off soft, barely audible above the six-inch voices of my fellow 'Simon Squad' members. From that point, the sound (which sounded like boiling water) escalated to a rolling boil. Everyone had come to the same conclusion, I predicted, as each of our lights focused on the exact same spot. What we saw was even stranger. A small portion of the water, near the lake's edge, was bubbling wildly. We all watched in fascination as the bubbling spread and came closer to the bank. None of us moved. Our curiosities had to be quenched.

Finally, the bubbling stopped, and a single fish flopped up onto the land immobile. What was going on here?

"That's a piranha," Vince said quietly, as if scared to break the eerie sanctuary that had fallen on the situation. "What the _hell_—" He faded off, and, along with Jesse and Charlie, began walking towards the piranha.

The fish twitched. Charlie and the other two halted, watching as it struggled to right itself. One would expect a fish to flop right over on its other side. However, it did no such thing, instead bringing itself to, and I don't believe I was mistaken, its _feet_. Judging by the various rapid inhales, the others were just as startled as I was. Now, I may not be a scientist, but I do happen to know that fish don't have legs. They weren't just legs either. They were four short, stocky legs (almost like turtles' legs) covered in scales. Once the fish was upright, it opened its mouth into what looked like a malicious, taunting grin. I got a good view of the piranhas numerous, pointy teeth. Let's just say you would never want to be its lunch.

Without warning, the piranha leaped from its spot, mouth wide, and aimed for Charlie. Luckily he was on the ball since he was able to whip out his sidearm and shoo the thing. Unlike the creatures from earlier in the day, the piranha did not turn into dust. Instead, it just died like a fish that had been shot, only with a lot more blood. Vince walked forward with the intention of picking the dead thing up; however, Paul had enough sense to stop his friend.

"Lucky," he hissed, "what are you, dense? Get back here! Same goes fo—"

Whether it was the fresh blood or the scent of human flesh that caused the water to bubble tenfold once more was indefinite. The only thing that was definite was that we were in danger. This was made quite clear when hundreds, literally _hundreds_, of the first piranha's buddies began to emerge from the lake. The first phalanx of fish entering the battle dragged themselves to their dead brethren and in no time devoured it.

"Run," Charlie commanded, first calmly, then urgently. "RUN!"

I didn't have to be told twice, and by the looks of it, neither did the rest of the Simon Squad. Though it was difficult to run for you life while being forced to point your flashlight in front of you and carry some sort of weapon in the other hand, somehow I managed. Well, that is until twenty minutes into the run when I tripped over a rock I hadn't seen. Then, I didn't manage too well.

"Shit," I heard myself say in an angered whisper. I was pretty sure my forehead had been cut, and even though I was seeing stars, my surroundings had gone black. I checked my flashlight. The glass and bulb were shattered. There wasn't a single other source of light available to me. Not only that, but I was very much alone, save for the terrors of the jungle that thrive during the night, hoping for a new victim of prey. The only thing I had for protection were four measly bullets, which didn't bother me until I heard the sound of what appeared to be a growling dog salivating angrily. Only, it wasn't a dog; it was a pack of four or five piranhas.

Adrenaline began pouring through my bloodstream, and as a result, my ears became finely attuned, hearing things I never thought possible. One more growl from the enemy was I all I needed to spring into action. I pointed my gun in the direction of where I thout I heard the sound.

_First shot . . ._

_Second shot . . . _

_Third shot . . ._

_Fourth shot . . ._

_. . . silence . . ._

WAAAAGGGGHHHH!

My head pounded as I ran as fast as one can with their arms out in from of them and no light. I had thrown a sandwich I had left over in my bag at the carnivores. Just the sound and speed of them devouring the sandwich was enough of a stimulant for me. My heart pounded as it never had before. For the first time in my life, I was completely scared out of my mind. I couldn't see a thing. Since I was suspecting danger, my ears kept interpreting the most minor things as catalysts to danger. The crack of a leaf, the sound of a twig snapping, everything had me frightened for my life. Besides, where were the others?

The sound of the piranhas gathering on me was getting louder as my stamina started quitting on me. _Come on_, I said to myself angrily, hating myself for not being able to keep up, _run faster!_ The mental pep talk seemed to do the trick. Putting my all into it, I ran as hard as I could. I didn't even bother with my hands anymore I was so involved with my running. Sure enough, not five minutes into it, I ran into a tree.

A tree that immediately fired a gun in my direction as soon as I hit the ground once more.

I screamed, as sad as it was to admit it, but, hey! I was _shot_ at! I think that justifies my weak response. "Don't shoot!" I added, just in case the tree (which probably wasn't a tree if it could operate a gun) didn't get the meaning of my scream.

"Shit . . . Suze?" the voice asked, shining a beam of light in my face. I shielded my eyes and saw it was Jack. All the fear seemed to evaporate from my body in that instant. Not that I needed a man to protect me, but it was nice to see a familiar face. Relieving, actually. "Suze! I am so sorry," Jack apologized, sounding as if he really, really meant it. He offered me his hand, which I took, and asked, "Are you alright?"

I nodded, taking the momentary peace to catch my breath. "I'm fine. I just cut my forehead, but that's from all the way back there when I broke my flashlight too. Are _you_ alright?" I asked him. "Where are the others?

Jack ignored my first question and reloaded his gun, whatever it was. "The others split into different directions," he said in answer to my second question. "I have no idea where they are. Maverick was with me, but we were forced to split when more of those fish came after us. I still can't even believe they have _feet_!"

"Yeah, I know, I—"

My speech was interrupted by snarls of the piranhas. Jack shined his light through the darkness and what appeared to be thousands of them were coming toward us. The time was taken to shoot the closest cluster of fish, but after that, there were far too many.

"C'mon, Suze, follow me."

I made sure to stay close by because Jack's flashlight only provided a thin beam of light illuminating only three feet ahead at the least. He had to have been being courteous because I kept up his pace the whole time.

"There's an abandoned motorboat on the edge of the lake I saw when I was running," he informed me as we ran. "It's right up ahead. Here, hold this."

By 'this' he meant his gun. I took it and watched as he took a grenade out of his bag. Like the army men I had seen in movies, he ripped something out with his teeth, spit it out, and said quickly, "Head down to the boat. I'll be right behind you. GO!"

I ran and didn't look back. Jack hadn't given me any directions, let alone a flashlight, so I assumed the boat couldn't be too far off. The pitch black of the night was permeated by the dull blue glow of the moon's reflection on the lake. If I squinted, I could see the tiny blur that must have been the boat he had been referring to. Filled with the foreign feeling of hope, I began to sprint towards the lake. It was when huge explosion occurred that I halted and turned around, worried about Jack. I needn't have been since he was at my side almost instantly, pulling me along.

"That didn't work as well as I thought it would have," he admitted to me with an ironic tone to his words. "There's so many of them!"

With a glance behind me, I realized Jack was right. Thousands of the beasts were flooding the shore behind us. There were so many of them, it was hard to fathom. They could kill us in an instant.

"Get in," Jack commanded, pulling the string on the ancient motor. "Only shoot any of 'em that get too close. I'll get this boat up and running."

With each pull of the string came the deadly sound of the motor not starting. The piranhas were gaining land as the seconds ticked by. I propped the gun against my shoulder blade. I would go down fighting no matter what happened.

The hacking cough of the engine diverted my attention, and soon enough, we were moving at a decent speed away from the shore. Once the piranhas realized where we were going, they stopped moving forward as if the water scared them or something. I was too relieved to dwell on the eccentricity of the piranha situation. Once we were far enough away, I sunk to the bottom of the small boat and rested a hand on my pounding heart.

Jack, on the other hand, was too busy celebrating our victory. "Yeah, take that, cock-suckers!" he was saying. Then, as if realizing me for the first time, he apologized, embarrassed.

"Relax, Jack," I said, unable to hide my smile. Once again, I had managed to outwit whatever this jungle threw at me. Take that, General Holdren. "I don't mind if you swear in front of me. Really, after that, you deserve it."

"I know, it's just discourteous to swear in front of a woman," he explained. Through the light of the flashlight, I could see he was being serious which made it that much cuter.

Our victory was short-lived, however. Moments later, the flashlight flickered and went out. "Aw, shit," Jack voiced, ignoring any sense of chivalry. I didn't mind because it was exactly how I felt.

As he was trying to fix the flashlight, the boat jerked, and I heard a splash. My heart stopped.

"Jack!" I called out, hoping it wasn't him who had made the splash.

Silence.

". . . Jack?"

There was no reply.


	9. Retreating Too Soon

"_Jack_!"

My voice seemed to echo off the dark, vacant waters surrounding the tiny motorboat I sat in. The sound of insects chirping and the boat rocking from side to side were the only audible sounds aside from the dull _thump_ in my head, creating one of the worst headaches in my life.

I couldn't even bring myself to say anything. This was all my fault. If I hadn't run into Jack in the first place, none of this would be happening. Why had my senses not noticed that rock I tripped over, causing me to break my flashlight, ultimately starting this downhill slope of events? I used to be so good at this. Was I losing my touch? When you hit your late thirties, do you, like, become some unsuave loser who can't even handle a measly flashlight, let alone a responsibility to save the world from the evil of ghosts? I used to _own_, and now . . . now, I was just falling through this spiral of downward depression starting with my dad, at a standstill with my marriage, and ending with the part I played in demolishing Jack Slater's life.

_I killed Jack Slater_. The thought alone had my nose burning and my stomach caving in. What had I _done_?

"JACK!"

A _thud_. A _crash_. Then: "_What_? Why are you shouting?"

No words had ever sounded sweeter than those uttered at that very moment. I could almost feel my spirit lift and my heart regain life again. Tears threatened to come which they promptly did, as sad as it was to admit.

"Oh, Jack!" Losing all sense of self dignity, I launched myself at him, pulling him into a large, embarrassing hug. I was just so happy he was alive and still with me that I didn't even care or notice how ridiculous I was being. Jack, who I noticed never tried to make me look or feel stupid unlike his brother, patted my back awkwardly in an attempt to comfort me. I was pretty certain he was totally freaked out by my display of water works since I was the in control one back when we last talked.

The level of protection I felt for Jack was almost too weird considering we only knew each other a short time before I was forced to move to California. However, there was no logical explanation for why I was tightening my grasp on him, thankful beyond words that he was alive.

"Shh, Suze. Relax," Jack was saying to me in a calming tone.

I released him, brushed my eyes hastily, and demanded, "Why didn't you answer me when I called you? The boat rocked, and then I heard a splash; I thought you fell overboard. I thought you _died_!"

Jack was silent for a moment before he explained, "I dropped my flashlight and dropped to the floor which caused the boat to rock, which in turn caused the splash. The reason I didn't answer you was because I was concentrating on fixing my flashlight. It was destroyed when it fell, but now that I fixed it, it works perfectly, see?" He demonstrated this by clicking the light on and off multiple times.

Thank God it was dark, or else Jack would have seen my face turn approximately the shade of a fire truck. To cover up my unadulterated embarrassment, I coughed and wiped my nose since it was all snotty from my crying jag.

"Um, sorry about . . . that," I apologized profusely, wanting nothing more than to just be swallowed up right there and then. I felt so stupid and overly emotional.

"Suze." Jack placed his hands on my shoulders and forced me to look at him. I noticed he was bleeding from a cut on his forehead. "You're cool, okay? If the roles were reversed, I would have reacted the same way."

I smiled wetly and sniffed. "Thanks, Jack. I appreciate that."

He returned the gesture and rumpled my hair playfully. "Don't mention it." He laughed as I batted his hand away from my precious hair. If there was one thing I was _really_ protective of, it was my hair. "Listen, do you think we could get this boat moving?" he asked me, after he had looked around. "It may sound stupid, but I get the uncanny feeling like we're not alone."

I let my backpack drop to the boat's floor and shivered. Although the thought wasn't exactly foreign to me, I would never have voiced it. The last thing I needed was more to fear. I mean, between being out in the middle of a giant lake in the dark and deadly fish with feet and, apparently, _lungs_, there was nothing else I needed to stress/freak out about.

Except, that's exactly what I got anyway. Something to freak out about, I mean.

The grating snarl of the ancient motor was once again resumed as Jack pulled the cord. He had instructed me to shine the flashlight directly in front of the boat, ignoring what little help it gave. Since I had just gone all Ewan McGregor in _Moulin Rouge _after Satine dies earlier, and Jack was busy guiding us towards safety, more importantly, land, I figured the least I could do was accomplish my task with aplomb and poise. I mean, come on. Who was I to complain about holding a simple flashlight when I was surprisingly still alive?

A couple times, I jumped due to various sounds including the unhealthy creak of the boat that, incidentally, was our only chance of survival, and the occasional sound of boot on metal. An estimated six harpoons were left in the boat previously, and since I twitched when I got nervous, my foot would occasionally jerk, therefore I present boot on metal. When I wasn't being scared out of my mind, or being affected by the cool air as it whipped past my face, I took the time to marvel at the other items that had been left on the boat. On top of rusty harpoons, there was also a coil of rope, a fishing pole with neither hook nor wire, a pair of rubber fishing boots, a red box of deteriorating tools, and, finally, what appeared to be a rotting life preserver. Whoever had this boat previously was either a fishing enthusiast, or a metal enthusiast with an unhealthy love for rust. Seriously, even the wood was rusting.

"So you're a fashion designer, huh?"

Before it registered in my head, I jumped about three feet in the air and whipped around. I couldn't help that I was a little—okay, a _lot_—antsy. It just seemed like everywhere I turned, there seemed to be some sort of danger. I kept forgetting that Jack and I were relatively safe and secluded in our little boat, considering all the piranhas stayed back on the shore. As I counted to ten, I attempted to calm myself down.

"Um, yes," I finally said in reply to his question, "I am." I frowned and attempted to warm myself up by rubbing my arms rapidly. "What's it to you?"

Since Jack didn't have the luxury of being able to give eye contact, he continued to stare intently into the void of darkness before us. His strong looking hand kept the motor steady as the boat continued to chug forward. "It's nothing," he assured me, glancing down only once at his watch which apparently doubled as a compass. "I just never pinned you to be in that field of work, I guess."

I tucked a piece of flaying hair behind my ear. If only I had thought to use a hair tie. "Interesting." I moved so I was straddling the bench I was currently seated in. It hurt my neck too much to turn like that, plus, my poor nose was insufferably cold. "I never pinned _you_ to be an army man."

"The Corps," he corrected me. Unlike Paul's corrections, this one lacked a single ounce of superiority. It was more a pride for his work than anything. I couldn't help but grin. How could two fetuses have turned out so very differently? "I guess you could say," Jack continued, taking the time to glance at me out of politeness, "we both failed miserably at meeting expectations."

I laughed lightly, ignoring the semblance of truth that statement actually carried. I searched my pocket, hoping that I had shoved a hair tie in there at some point in time. It was time to face facts: I would never have a good hair day, so long as I was in this place. Enjoying the road this conversation had turned onto, I asked, "Just out of curiosity, what exactly did you picture me doing for a living?"

"Honestly," Jack spouted, squinting in the dark, trying to use the tiny beam of light from the flashlight as best he could, "I always pictured you being some sort of psychiatrist."

My eyebrow rose unexpectedly. "Really?" I asked, unable to hide my surprise.

Jack nodded. "Sure. You always had a way with talking and helping people." He pointed at himself. "Point and case right here. Not only did you help me not become a pansy, but you taught me to swim. I hold one of the fastest swimming times in my platoon, and it's all thanks to you."

I was unable to contain the snort of derision that fought its way through my nose. "You're kidding me, right?" I asked dryly. He acted as if I had cured him of blindness. All I did was show him that dead people don't want to kill you, and a poor version of the doggy paddle. "Jack, you were fully capable of achieving all those things on your own. I merely played the catalyst, if that."

Jack shook his head and smiled. "To each his own, I guess," he said, "but I worshipped you for the longest time afterward. Paul never acknowledged my ghost issues, said I was making it up and that it was all in my head. You were the first person to believe what I was saying. That meant a lot to an eight year old kid."

"Maybe I'm just overly arrogant," I joked, barely able to suppress a grin, "but it wounds like someone has a crush." Certainly, I was touched by his remarks, but I figured the last thing he needed was me to fawn over him. Besides, what better way to brighten the mood than to talk about awkward crushes?

Whether or not Jack blushed was lost to the darkness. He immediately took the defensive, and began tripping over his words. "_Had_ a crush. _Had_," he emphasized quickly. Despite myself, I laughed. "Actually, my first crush, come to think of it, but I didn't have a chance since you were so smitten with Paul. I was never able to love again." Jack burst into the fakest sobs since George Michael when Anne said they were through on _Arrested Development_.

I reached over and patted him on the shoulder. I giggled like an idiot. Suddenly, I felt really giddy. Jack apparently felt the same way since he too began laughing. It was funny how it took a plane crash in the middle of nowhere for me to realize how much I missed him, along with everybody else. "In all seriousness, though," I continued, clearing the hair away from my face, "I've been meaning to ask you how things are going with your girlfriend, Emily, or whatever her name is."

"Girlfriend?" Jack repeated in confusion.

I nodded.

"You mean my wife?" he corrected, veering the boat to the left for some reason. Paul hadn't exactly elaborated on the whole thing, so this was news to me. After congratulating him, he explained they had been married for a couple years now, and how they had met in Annapolis right after he graduated from the academy. He also explained that she was pregnant.

"Em's in her second trimester," he went on to explain excitedly, "and according to the doctor, or at least the last appointment I was in attendance, she's coming along nicely. It's our first, so I'm really nervous, well, excited, I mean." Jack's smile was infectious, so much so that I found my face hurting from all the excess happy. "We chose not to know the sex of our baby, but I'm secretly hoping it's a boy, only because I don't know how good of an influence I'd be a girl. But, you know, as long as it's healthy, I'm content."

"You'll be a good father," I assured him, "unlike your brother, who, should he choose to reproduce, might rank up there with Hitler as the world's worst parent ever."

Jack snorted. "Paul isn't that bad, Suze. Really."

I rolled my eyes. From what I had seen, Paul was the worst human being on the planet—well, that wasn't entirely true. Back when we were together, he really was very considerate, very loyal, very loving; just, you know, everything a boyfriend should be. Somewhere between that time and now, he had grown to something I detested. "I'm sure Paul's . . . _lovely_." I cringed and shook my head trying to rid myself of the rancid taste in my mouth after muttering that statement.

"Hey, question," Jack wanted to know, as he cleared his throat, "you never said: what did you picture me doing as a career?"

I swept the flashlight's beam of light over the perimeter before answering. "Well, not as a soldier, that's for sure. Although to be honest," I confessed, "I don't really know what I would have pinned you as. Maybe an accountant or something."

The dubious intonation in Jack's voice was blatantly obvious. "An accountant?"

I giggled. "Well, yeah, I mean, there—_what the hell was that_?"

I brought my flashlight back to the area in front of our boat and held it steadily. Well, as steadily as someone who could visibly see the sight before us. It was ten times as scary seeing it the second time around. Jack and I were rendered speechless, motionless, as we sat there, scared into instant surrender.

What stood before us had never been seen by a single member of the scientific community. Then again, technically, we didn't see the whole . . . _organism_ since the only thing in our sight was its gargantuan mouth. The teeth alone were more numerous than grains of sand on all the beaches of the world. Of course, these were far more deadly as well. Strings of saliva (do fish even _have_ saliva?) oozed from the top of the mouth to the bottom. The vertical diameter had to have been at least fifteen feet long. From what I could see, the skin or scales surrounding the mouth was bumpy, slimy, and cold looking. Either this was one huge ass fish or some abnormally large amphibian. Judging by how far out in the water we were, I was guessing it was some sort of fish. Although, to be perfectly honest, I had never seen one this large, ever. Well, there were those fish in the first _Star Wars_ episode, but those aren't even real.

"Jack," I said as quietly as possible. A warm breeze kept coming from the mouth of the thing, blowing on me, making it impossible to sit in comfortable stillness. The smell wasn't exactly unpleasant, but it was not trip to the beach either. "Jack," I tried again, "what do we _do_?"

"I-I," Jack began, unable to coherently form a sentence, "I don't know. I've never—I mean, this _thing_ is—"

"—_huge_, yeah, I know." With the rapid thudding of my heart in my ears, I couldn't think logically. Never in a million years did I _ever_ see myself facing this type of dilemma. Ever. The idling of the engine brought me back. "Move the boat forward as slowly as possible," I told Jack quietly.

"Move the boat forward?" he repeated. Since my eyes were glued forward, I could only assume he was tapping his foot in agitation. At least, I hope that's what it was. "Suze, in case you haven't noticed, that thing is right in front of our boat. If we move any further ahead, we are fish bait. Literally."

"Yeah, _Jack_, I know that," I hissed angrily. My voice raised a few decibels, and I heard the fish grunt agitatedly. "Do you have any other suggestions?" He was silent. "That's what I thought, now move the boat!"

Tentatively, Jack placed a hand on the rudder and tugged it up gently allowing the boat to move just the tiniest bit. In that instant, a monstrous growl was ripped from the bowels of the fish. Immediately, Jack let go of the rudder, and I began searching for the one weapon I knew we had on board.

The pile of harpoons I had spotted earlier was still lying under the seat I was occupying. I grabbed one, stood up, and swung my arm back and forth, practicing my aim. There was certainly a reason I hadn't thrown javelin on my high school's track team, as Jack somehow seemed to know, but I ignored his protests, threw back my arm as far as possible, and with all the strength I could muster, launched the harpoon at the huge fish. Apparently with its super size, it had been given a super carcass. We watched as the harpoon bounced effortlessly off the fish and fell into the water with a helpless _splash_. For some _completely_ unfair reason, the fish chose to take the attack personally, and thus began thrashing violently. At least he had closed his mouth, I guess.

"_Way to go, Suze_!" I don't know why he was savagely whispering. We had past the point 'do not disturb' ages ago. As if I didn't feel bad enough already, he added insult to injury by saying, "So you have any other brilliant ideas up your sleeve? Huh?"

Perhaps I had jumped the gun when I had said Jack was morally higher than his older brother.

There was no time for me to mutter a sarcastic remark I had yet to come up with. Instead, I watched in horror as the fish swam towards us, his jaw wide open, preparing to consume us whole. The part where he clamped his mouth shut and Jack grabbed a harpoon with the intention of hurling it at our assailant happened so close together, I honestly couldn't tell you which happened before which. The only evidence I even have that I didn't die was the heavy recollection that Jack made an exclamation having landed a harpoon right in the fish's back.

At first, it was drinks all around because we had totally pwn'd that thing, you know? But as my luck would have it, the fish was not dead. Plus, he was really angry. So angry, he took off, swimming at impossibly high speeds. Unfortunately our boat jerked forward and followed suit. Jack had not noticed the rope attached to the end of the harpoon, which in turn was attached to the tip of our boat.

"Oh, my God, Jack, what do we do?" I found myself asking for the second time that night.

As our boat swerved violently left and right, the wind continued to whip my hair all over the place. As annoying as it normally was, I couldn't bring myself to be concerned with it. My mind was on a one way track. This was turning into one of the scariest moments of my entire life. The insects in the surrounding jungle continued to hum and chirp as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring, as if we weren't going to die very shortly if this situation was not resolved.

"Uh—" Jack looked just about as nervous and scared as I was. Although, bless him, he was doing his best to look in charge and collected. His marine training couldn't have prepared him for midnight meetings with large members of the phyla chordata. "Okay, here's the plan, Suze," he continued. He was doing his best to control the slight tremor in his voice. It was a very convincing job, by the way. "Grab the rudder. Should the, uh, need arise, redirect the boat. Even though it's still attached to that . . . _thing_, we still have a little slack. I'll try to launch these harpoons at it, God willing, all right?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, let alone civilly or coherently. As I wrapped my fingers around the rudder, the violent rocking of the boat was doing a number on my stomach. This fish must have been trying to hit every rock, tree branch, etc. that lay in its way just to spite us. Geez, it wasn't my problem natural selection was playing its part, and this was survival of the fittest in high def.

(**TG/N:** Whoa! Two biology references within five minutes. Someone is on a ROLL!)

I watched as Jack brought his arm back, the veins in it pulsating madly, just about ready to make the plunge. Without warning, the boat came to an abrupt halt, not before jerking roughly, causing Jack to lose his balance. He landed with a _thud_, but was back up on his feet faster than you could say 'Darwin'.

(**TG/N:** Get it? Darwin? Natural Selection and Survival of the Fittest? Ha-HA!)

It was interesting seeing this kid in combat mode. His eyes were wide and alert; his feet were firmly in position. Absolutely no distractions got in his way. I, on the other hand, was not fond of the impenetrable darkness. Any inconsistencies in the idling engine or an abnormality in the continual way the water lapped against the rickety boat had me shaking in my boots. Or, you know, sneakers.

"Suze, shine the flashlight over here," Jack demanded. To indicate which direction, he used a combat signal I had seen Jack Bauer use once before. He was lucky I was "_24_" savvy because I could tell exactly which direction he meant. "Keep an eye out," he demanded quietly.

I didn't say what I wanted to which was, _forget your macho pride and let's get the hell out of here! That thing is obviously done with us._ Instead, I dutifully swept my eyes over the instructed area, trying, with difficulty, to keep my eyes open, now that most of the adrenaline had worn off. It seemed like years since I had last slept, even if it was on something as uncomfortable as a cot.

"_There_!"

Without direction, my hands instinctively whipped the light towards where the sound had originated. At first, I saw nothing. But as I stared harder, I realized what had Jack so intense. The bumpy, ridged, scaly back of our creature was speeding towards the boat, its mouth wide open.

I sat stock still, unable to physically move. I felt badly for Jack because surely there must have been some way I could have helped, but no. There was just no moving me. None of my sitting, however, did anything to slow the fish down.

"Jack . . ."

He was way more collected than I, and this time, he was going to hit that son of a bitch. Or, you know, that's at least what the determined scowl on his face said. His arm was once again cocked back, and he bore his teeth as they roughly ground against each other in solid determination. He gave me some sort of hand gesture that must have meant quiet. Even though I wanted to listen to him—also, mind you, I couldn't move—my mouth seemed perfectly capable of gabbing in the wind.

"Jack," I tried again, "you're not going to hit that thing—"

"Shh." His eyes stayed forward. His hand gripped tighter around the harpoon.

"—_but it's getting too_ _close_!" I insisted. My voice took on an even whinier quality than before.

"I said—AAAAAHHHHHHH!" The harpoon sliced through the rough carcass of the fish and pierced its juicy innards. To retaliate, the thing let out a wounded roar of rage—not unlike the battle cry of Jack's prior—and took a dive once more into the murky depths which caused the boat to rock violently from the force of the water. Soon enough, we were being jerked around in the exact same fashion as before, only this time, we were being pulled by a monstrous fish—nay—monster with some serious PMS.

"Sorry, Jack, I—"

"Forget it. Veer to the left, Suze," he commanded. "I think I can get a clear shot."

As he promised, the harpoon sunk right into the fish's eye, causing blood to sputter forth like a small geyser. As the small droplets settled on the surrounding flesh, a faint hissing sound was emitted, while simultaneously the fish bellowed in white, hot agony. It took one last final breath, before swiftly plummeting to the lake's bottom. Apparently, Jack was joining it.

You see, what Jack hadn't realized was that the last harpoon he threw also had a rope attached. As the fish sunk, the rope whizzed past the side of the boat. Due to its speed, and Jack's proximity, the rope snaked its way around Jack's ankle, and jerked him suddenly when it was all out of length. Once again, gravity was against my friend as he took another slam to the bottom of the boat. His eyes grew wide as he realized the severity of the predicament, and he began throwing his arms about wildly, in search of his pocket knife.

In one of the fastest moments of my life, I whipped the hunting knife I had in my bag out, and began hacking at the strained piece of rope that threatened to pull Jack to his untimely death. I couldn't lose another good friend. Not tonight anyway.

Drops of perspiration formed on my forehead, and slid down, stinging my eyes. My brain completely shut down until all it knew was the rapid back and forth motion of my hastily working hand. My objective seemed so far away, and I could feel all sense of hope slipping away as swiftly as Jack seemed to be doing, no matter how tightly I held on. With each erratic swipe of the knife's blade, and every inch Jack slid closer to the murky waters, I began losing faith in his ability to hold on and myself completely. Never in my life had I had such self loathing and lack of confidence in myself. Saving people was what I did best. It's what part of being a mediator—shifter—was. So why was I sucking so _badly_?

The scariest part of the whole situation was that I felt myself give up. I felt the pace of my sawing slow down, and my grasp on Jack's arm seemed to slacken. I even had fleeting thoughts of how I was going to have to break it to the others that he had died because I was not able to hold on any longer. It wasn't that I didn't think Jack a worthy cause (I did); it was just that I was too tired of holding out for nothing. My marriage. Convincing people my job requires loads of knowledge and education, when any numbskull with two hands could design a shoe or a skirt. My father . . .

You see, I lied earlier. The 'Good Life'? It doesn't exist. Or at least, it hasn't for me in some time. I was never able to get over my dad's disappearance. I'm still not over it. Somehow, I have always felt like it was somehow my fault, like, like maybe if I had been more interested in his calling, then maybe he wouldn't have felt the need to leave home because he could have taught me. Or-or, maybe my mom wouldn't have secretly cried into a pillow every night after his disappearance to the dulcet tones of Johnny Carson because, one, she couldn't sleep, and two, she missed him more than she let on. Missed him so much, she couldn't bear to be in that house, let alone that state any longer.

For the longest time, I have done everything I could to keep my thoughts on the situation to myself because for those of you that know me, the last thing I ever want to do is talk feelings, and discuss issues because then I become vulnerable, and vulnerability is a sign of weakness. The consequence that comes with this lifestyle is a feeling of being torn up inside like food in its final stage having gone through a processor. Shards of emotion thrown everywhere until you can't even keep track anymore. You lose who you are because all your energy focuses on this façade that you built—that you _had_ to build—to keep you safe from the hurt and the disappointment of the world around you. Except that I've cracked. The troubled waters of my inner person have burst through this dam I've worked so hard to build, and the result is that I can't even stand what I have become. Some unconfident, pessimistic, cynical me is being reflected, and I can't even manage to bust through the glass to destroy it. That kick-ass, top of the line, suave, charismatic mediator that I used to be? She doesn't exist.

_Snap_.

My eyes began burning once more, only this time, it was for an entirely different reason. Tears streamed down my cheeks like small, cascading water falls, and had I had a free hand, I would have batted them away hastily. As it was, however, I continued hacking brutally at the rope, angry at myself that I had given up so easily. Because for as far as I had regressed, I didn't _want_ to be there. It was like I was trapped at the bottom of this abyss, and I _want _to get out, only no one is throwing me a rope.

"Stupid . . . sonuva . . . bitch . . .," I cursed heatedly, ". . . why . . . won't . . . you . . . break?"

I felt a hand grasp my upper arm. Not violently, or anything. Just affectionately. I ignored it, anyway, and continued to lacerate the hell out of the rope. I didn't stop until I heard my name being called. It was Jack, obviously, and what he said didn't hit me until I allowed the words to sink in.

_Suze, the rope broke all ready. You did it!_

I stopped moving and swallowed painfully, ignoring the burning in the back of my throat. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry or just plain throw a tantrum. Eventually, I settled for collapsing in the bottom of the tiny motorboat, allowing my heart and my tear ducts to settle.

* * *

**July, Present Day**

**2324 Hours**

**Somewhere in the Amazon**

The sound of boot crushing twigs and gravel hit General Dax Holdren's ear, and he managed a dry grin. It was one of his favorites. Nothing was a metaphor for power like the merciless demise of a helpless twig beneath the soul-crushing sole of his military issued boot. He took a deep inhale of the surrounding air before disassembling his parachute hookup. Holdren hated foreign places with their inane rules and customs, unbelievably extreme climate differences, and worst of all, insects. It wasn't that they scared him. He just didn't like them. Kind of like that guy he knocked out over the coffee table, that smarmy ass.

Another member of the troop that was sent to help out landed behind Holdren, and mentally he counted the number of men left. As it was, all twenty of the men had landed safely, and the only one to land yet was his partner, Grabowski. Dax liked Grabowski, he did. But loyalty and patience only went so far. Sometimes, he wished she'd grow a pair. She was way too soft for his liking.

"So." General Holdren turned towards the sound of gadgets clicking in and out of place. Felicity had arrived right on schedule. "What do we do from here, Dax?" she asked, already discarding her flight suit.

Holdren thought a second. "Well, first of all, I want to set up communications, you know, make sure every thing is running smoothly without interruption. I've got Leibowitz on it." He scratched his chin. "Then, I want to get moving. Code name 'Simon Says' already has three days ahead of us. After the note mishap, I vow to never underestimate them again. That Susannah is pretty swift for a shoe designer."

"So what direction do you plan on traveling?" Felicity wanted to know. Her parachute and accessories lay abandoned as the two made their way towards the cluster of military men before them. Excess baggage was unnecessary.

"I guess northwest," was the general's reply. Although he seemed like he had everything planned out, he seemed about as uncertain about this mission as she was. "Judging by their amateur gambits earlier, I think I can safely pre—"

"General Holdren." This from a shorter, stocky, rough man with thick eyebrows.

"Yeah, what d'ya got for me, Leibowitz?"

"It's the communications, sir," Leibowitz explained. "The screen . . . it's-it's blank. There's not one signal coming in. All the lines seem to be jammed."

Dax jammed his eyes shut and muttered something that would have been most distasteful had his mother been around. Good thing she was dead. "Show me."

Leibowitz led the two agents to the cluster of men they were headed towards earlier. Out of the corner of his eyes, Holdren could see Felicity looked nervous. For the first time in his career, he couldn't help but be on the same page. Their chopper had left a long time ago, and if their main source of communications wasn't working, there was no way anything like a walkie-talkie or a radio was going to work. _Why_ hadn't he thought to tell the helicopter to stay awhile?

Leibowitz took a seat on the overturned crate and displayed the screen to his superiors. Sure enough, the screen remained blank, and the only sound coming from the revolving satellite was that of static, like when you sign onto the internet.

Furious, Holdren let out another slew of curses, holding no restraint. His partner would have calmed him down; only, she sort of felt the same way. No one was able to do anything because just as Leibowitz was shutting down the COM link, a huge gust of wind howled past. Just as soon as it began, it was over. The strange part was that it slammed the computer shut, and sent it hurling into a nearby tree.

Immediately, all of the military men reached for their sidearm or nearest available weapons, twisting and turning around, making sure every angle was covered. Felicity flicked on her flashlight and pistol, while the general grabbed his Glock 9, staring down the barrel menacingly.

Never in Dax Holdren's entire life had he ever experienced a silence so quiet. Nothing seemed to stir, not even the insects or plant life. It was as if time had stopped completely. Just to be certain, he turned the safety off.

Another gust of wind howled past, except this time, it momentarily turned all the flashlights out. When the short gust had passed, and the flashlights were back to normal, everyone in the group turned around frantically, searching for anything out of the ordinary. All were shocked when two of the twenty men were down, each with a primitive, handcrafted spear pierced through their hearts. Blood pooled around the two corpses, gaining diameter by the second.

"Dax," Felicity warned, her voice shaky. If she was hoping for answers, she was going to be disappointed. Holdren had no clue as to what was going on.

Once again, the same howl of wind, the same momentary blackness, and the same two bludgeoned soldiers. This time, a strange, whispery chant followed, that seemed to saturate through the canopy above. _What the . . . ?_

Another gust of wind blew by, but this time, the group was ready. Enough blood had been shed.

"Run." Holdren commanded, a faint sweat breaking out on his brow. "Run like your life depends on it."

**+SS+**

"This is stupid."

"No, you know what's stupid? People that think humans and robots could peacefully coexist, that's what. Just look at _Battlestar Gallactica_, then you tell me where those people were the day they were handing out common sense."

"Oh, my God, what does that matter? And for that matter, what will it matter if we have conserved battery power when we are mauled by bears?"

"Bears don't live in the Amazon."

"I _know_ that, it's just—OW!"

"Don't move!"

"How can I _possibly_ move when something, or, God forbid, some_one_ is on top of me?"

"Suze, is that you?"

Finally giving up on the conservation idea, Jack turned his flashlight on, which finally illuminated the culprit on top of me. As it was, it was Maverick, but I didn't even care because never in my entire life had I been glad to see such a misguided group of people as I was right then. I even hugged the life out of Mavvy. He was so polite about it, too, that he didn't even ask me to let go of him until it turned out that he couldn't breathe any longer. Not that I had exactly gotten over my revelation out on the lake, but I felt safer knowing we were back as a group. It's the little things.

"So do we want to keep going," Jesse wanted to know, "or should we set up camp right here?"

I knew that Charlie was the resident expert on all things jungle-y and gambit-y, but I declared it "me" time at the moment. "I say keep going. The further away from this damn lake we are," I assured him, "the better I'll feel emotionally, physically, and mentally."

The others shrugged and continued walking into the dark, flashlights shining. Paul, on his way forward, slapped me on the shoulder, and said dryly, "Suze, you always were quite the charmer. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

I scowled, fully not missing this part of the search party agreement. I could handle Paul's egotistical sarcasm any other time, but at that moment, it was annoying the hell out of me. "No," I answered to Paul's question. But I didn't stop there. I continued. "It's interesting though, that it was good enough for you when we were together. My mouth, I mean."

I hadn't meant to say it. One minute, I was furiously annoyed at Slater, and the next moment, this spew of word vomit was flowing nonstop. As soon as I said it, I regretted it almost instantly, but the more I thought about it, the less it bothered me. What the hell did I care if it pissed Vince off? We weren't even technically together any longer.

Paul, on the other hand, found this strangely amusing. As if I had reverted back to the angry ex-girlfriend I used to be months after we broke it off. "Oh-ho-ho!" he hooted. "And she's _funny_ too! Tell me Suze: what else was good enough for me? And by that, I mean something you haven't shared with Vince and me—"

The punch came out of nowhere. One minute Paul was ejecting offensive innuendo, and the next, Vince right hooked the guy right in the face. I had dealt enough punches to recognize the sound of crunching bone, and, luckily, none of that occurred. Instead, as shown by light, he merely suffered a split lip, and what I knew was going to be a nasty black and blue come morning.

"_Shut the hell up, Slater_!" Vince demanded. The mixture of jealousy and hurt in his voice almost made me cave. I was on the verge of tears. How could I have been so insensitive, regardless of my puerile feelings? I felt even lower than I did back in the boat.

Charlie split the two up, and thankfully, Paul took his pain in silence. The rest of the trek was suffered in silence as well, only with the occasional whisper coming from Maverick to Vince, or Jack to Paul. Charlie led our group by walking ahead of the rest of us. I was even more embarrassed that he had heard that little disagreement because I was getting the feeling that Charlie approved of me, and I wanted him to like me. He was turning out to be a very good friend. However, judging by the earlier even, he was going to steadily back away.

We walked like this for another fifteen to twenty minutes. Long enough for me to get distracted and walk straight into a tree. This brings to the score to Suze, zero; trees, two. This also brought a slew of curses I had been holding in since the Lake Incident.

It was kind of nice the way everyone rushed to my side, worried for my well being. It was a change from my high school days when the only person who would care was Kelly Prescott, and that was only because she wanted to know if I would be alive next year when they picked Homecoming queen. Such bullshit, if you ask me.

"Suze," Jack asked, his voice laced with restricted laughter, "what happened?"

I sighed and collapsed onto the jungle floor. It was a poor choice on my part since my back was starting to act up again. "Well, Jack," I explained acerbically, "I walked into a tree." After the light chuckling had subsided, I added, "Satisfied?"

Charlie offered me a hand which I grabbed thankfully. I tried to stand respectfully once more, but somehow after walking into a tree, respectfully doesn't tend to work so well. It was as I was brushing myself off, that I heard Vince exclaim, "Suze, you're bleeding."

At first I thought, _damn, he knows me_ too _well_, but then I realized that he couldn't possibly have known that no matter how long we've been together. It was as Maverick shone his light in my direction that I found out he was talking about my back. This wasn't just a small droplet of blood, either. It was a large pool, almost as if my wounds had opened again.

Jesse frowned, and explained, "That must have been some fall, Susannah. Your wounds are ripped right open once more. It is almost as if I didn't suture you at all." After a couple more moments of examination, he declared, "Change of plans. We need to stop somewhere near and soon. Susannah is losing a lot of blood."

"Just another mile," Charlie told us. He smiled at me sympathetically. "I promise."

We were just about to pick up and leave again, or at least I was. The faster we walked, the faster I got fixed up, the faster I could go to sleep. Lord, did I need sleep. More than I needed my Pilates. After all this running for my life, I feel like saying fungoo to that whore. Only, I wouldn't say fungoo.

What was I saying? Oh, yeah. Well, anyway, we were just about to get moving again when Jack stopped us. His light was shining on the tree I had just walked in to. "Whoa, hold up, guys."

As a group, we seemed to groan simultaneously. Really, at that precise moment, more than self actualization, we all just wanted to go to sleep. Even Paul, and he doesn't even have a soul, let alone an actual bed. He just hangs from rafters. Out of loving support for Jack, however, we all stopped moving, and went to investigate what he had discovered.

"What is that?" Charlie wanted to know. Even with his eye patch, he realized Jack had found something unusual. Although, to be perfectly honest, you didn't need two eyes to realize that. But to realize its significance? Two eyes might not be too bad.

"That's the symbol!" I couldn't help but blurt out.

"Excuse me?" That being Jack.

I began rapidly pointing at the symbol painted on the tree. "The symbol!" I repeated. "Tell them, Paul. That's the symbol Dad drew!"

All eyes turned expectantly towards Paul. Having never shied away from the spotlight, he explained his theory about how Dad was drawing these symbols as a sort of Hansel and Gretel type breadcrumb trail so we could find where he was at. Everyone other than me seemed to find this quite legible. Although it must be remembered that we were all high on lack of sleep.

Everyone else walked forward, as I stood behind nursing my aching back. Vince decided to stay behind as well. To be perfectly honest, I wasn't expecting any proclamations of love or anything like that.

"Hey, Suze," he said. "Nice find."

That was it. After he said his peace, he followed the others and grew smaller as he walked into the distance. No one else had seen past my wall of sarcasm except for Vince. The fact that he could tell I was ailing said a lot about Vince. He couldn't have said anything better to, if not heal the wound then at least, cauterize the wound. I managed a small smile, and followed after him.

* * *

First, I would like to apologize for the numerous spelling mistakes that are in this chapter. I just wanted to update this really quickly. Second, I apologize for the long length between updates. I struggled with this chapter, and it probably shows in the poor writing quality. Lately, I just feel like my writing is not up to par. Thirdly, I apologize for the sudden meeting of the Suze Squad. It gets harder and harder to think up ways that they can meet again. It was necessary that they were all in a group, so viola! Weird, suddne meeting! Fourth, I would like to thank you for all your weird/yet frakkin' (yes, I'm hip with my _Battlestar Gallactica_) creepy comments about my fish. I understand they're weird, but the fact that they have you on the edge of your seats as well makes me so, so happy. Fifth, I love you all, and you can look forward to a Dyslexic Disturbances update, hopefully by the end of the month.

With ever loving leadership and love,

The General


	10. Valley of Cinnamon

That night, I couldn't sleep. Whether it was due to my back or the mutilated state of my emotional self was indefinite. One would think that after all the trauma I had suffered the days previously, the energy would have been sucked right out of me, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not get to sleep.

Still sore from the re-stitch job Jesse had executed on my wound, my back was acting up, so I discreetly left my sleeping area and pulled on some shoes. Once again, after batting through the layers of mosquito netting, I was dismayed to find the fire, although not as fiercely, still going. I groaned. Was there some sort of late night ritual I was not privy to?

Tonight was a little different from the previous I realized as I haphazardly put my hair up and put my glasses on. Instead of the Major O'Neil cleaning his weapons, I found Paul in wire rimmed glasses, writing, of all things, in a tiny, leather bound journal. I groaned. _Seriously_?

Paul was so engrossed with his writings, he didn't notice when I took a seat on the opposite side of the fire. I closed my eyes, pleased at the turn of events. I hadn't been in the mood to talk, anyway. Except that's exactly what I got. A conversation, I mean.

"Couldn't sleep?"

I started. Paul was glancing at me over the edge of his glasses. The hand with the ball point pen had momentarily paused. I merely nodded and pulled my feet up and under me. The embers of the fire were the color of grapefruit innards.

"Yeah, me neither," he agreed, once more engrossing himself back in his writings.

Momentarily I had thoughts of him recording in his 'diary' mundane occurrences like, 'Last night I dreamed I was a dragonfly,' but I pushed those aside.

"Plus," he added, "I'm on look out."

I nodded in understanding, not voicing that he was apparently doing a crummy job what with the writing and all. He returned to his journal, and I to my meditating, or, you know, trying to but failing thanks to curiosity. It would totally figure I try to find some sort of relief and peace, but ultimately find one because I am tormented by my short attention span.

"What are you writing in there?" I finally asked, unable to ignore my curiosity any longer.

Paul continued writing and answered, without glancing up at me, "Helps me keep my thoughts together. Right now, I'm just recording some data concerning those fish from earlier." He finished writing a few more lines and began clicking his pen absentmindedly. "Plus," he continued, "I find that as I get older, my mind just isn't what it used to be."

I snorted eloquently. "Tell me about it."

A small smile tugged at the corner of Paul's lips, but other than that he made no effort to show he had even heard me. I should have just stopped there and gone back to attempted meditation or whatever since, of course, he had basically given me the brush off. But, as it must be remembered, I am an idiot.

"So," I asked, gesturing towards the journal after a few moments silence, "anything interesting in that data?"

"_Loads_." He snapped his journal shut and set it on the seat next to him. He peered over his glasses at me. "But nothing you would have any interest in," he assured me.

I couldn't help it. I was a little offended. "Oh, right because my head is filled with shoe designs and shirt patterns." Just because science wasn't exactly an exciting topic for me didn't mean I might not have found whatever he was writing interesting. "An 1100 on the SATs doesn't exactly make you a genius."

Paul sighed as if to say I went into conniption fits all the time, telling whoever was nearest the woes I have suffered at the hands of this cruel, cruel world. Please. If I don't know you, you're lucky to get three words out of me, let alone for life story. Except for George Clooney. I met him once and couldn't keep my damn mouth from rambling stupidly as I fitted him for a tux for the Oscars one year. Needless to say, he never came back.

"That's not what I mean," he assured me, pushing his glasses up. "C'mon, you know me better than that. Give me some credit."

"Do I?" was all I had to add.

"Okay, I'm sorry." His eyes were dark, covered in shadows from the fire, but from the firm line his lips were set in, I could tell he was being absolutely serious. I shifted in my seat. "And I'm really sorry," he continued, "about the 'dumbass' remark from earlier. It was really insensitive and completely uncalled for on my part. I know it's no excuse, but the heat makes me really cranky, and at the time, I was pissed off at something the Master had said—I'm rambling now—anyway, I'm sorry."

My stomach plummeted to the bottom of my torso. I could handle Sarcastic Paul, and I could handle Angry/Moody Paul. I could even handle Arrogant Paul. But nothing, no matter how long I knew the guy, could ever let me handle Serious Paul. Any every time, even if I was partly expecting it, the mood change threw me for a loop. I would even prefer Asshole Paul to Serious Paul, that's how weird it was for me. So you'll totally understand that I was pretty much speechless for an entire minute. Paul was never serious, and even more rarely, did he apologize.

"Um . . . what did Maverick say to tick you off?" I asked finally, because, in my defense, I'm not exactly great under pressure.

Paul chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. "Coming from you, I'll take that as an acceptance." He picked up a stick and began mindlessly poking the logs in the slowly dying fire. "And I don't remember what Maverick said."

I snorted. "Yes, you do, Slater. God, you couldn't lie to save your life."

A strange look crossed over his face, but it was gone in an instant. I noticed his jaw line looked more prominent in the fire's glow. Paul had a good chin. "You'd be surprised," he commented vaguely. "As for the other thing, I plead the fifth. Under no circumstances am I discussing my personal affairs with you."

"Oh, come on," I coaxed, fully interested now that the topic was forbidden. "What did Maverick say to send you over the top?"

"Nothing," Paul said in a voice which he thought said the conversation was over, but he was so wrong. "It was stupid, so just drop it, okay? I already told you I am not discussing it with you."

"Did he bust out an offensive 'yo mama' joke?" I wanted to know. "Or did he, like, accuse you of being homosexual because I could totally understand if he did—"

"God, Suze. Just let it die, alright?" His face looked red and totally frustrated even in the minimal light. "I am no going to discuss it with you, so choose a new topic, okay?"

"Fine. What's Seattle like?" I obliged. "I've never been."

Having calmed down, Paul looked at me like I was crazy. "Really? You're giving up that easily?"

I shrugged. "Sure. For now anyway. Now answer the question: what's Seattle like?"

Paul heaved a sigh and propped his feet one on top of the other. "Seattle's great," was his elaborate description. "Very wet, but I think you would like it. It's no New York, but you should come out that way some time."

I nodded. "Naturally."

"The university I work at though," he countered, "is something different entirely. There are a lot of older men dressed in bad argyle sweaters made of a wool/bark mixture. And pleats. There are _loads_ of pleats."

"You mean, you don't wear pleated pants?" I asked after laughing a few minutes.

"_Never_," he stressed, looking really offended which made me smile even more. "They always just look terrible and make my ass look huge. No joke," he added when I giggled even more.

I was about to ask him which university he worked at after my laughter died down because I either couldn't remember or wasn't told. As soon as I made an effort to speak, however, my back spasmed, and I literally had to grit my teeth together to keep from crying out in agony. It wasn't pride. I was just worried about waking up the others.

"Are you alright?" Paul asked having noticed I don't usually suck in air like an idiot through a clenched mouth. When I did not respond (excuse me for being a little preoccupied), he continued, "Suze? Is it your back?"

I shook my head and waited for the spasm to subside. Finally, I was relieved enough to reply with a weak, "It's nothing. I'm fine."

Paul saw right through my façade and snorted. "Right," he commented, leaving his seat and walking over to where I was. "Let me take a look at it."

"_What_?" That brought me back to reality. Instinctively, I crossed my arms over my chest. Why hadn't I thought to put a bra on beforehand? "No! I already told you. I'm fine."

Paul was no listening to a single thing I was saying. He took a seat beside me and lifted the back of my shirt to catch a glimpse of my mutilated back. Expecting some sort of warning beforehand, I shot out of my seat, but before I did, I slapped him across the face. Rather hard, I might add.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" I barked madly, making sure my arms were still crossed over my chest.

Paul, who had just suffered a punch to the face courtesy of Vince earlier, howled in pain. In retrospect, he sounded like a big baby. "OW, _shit_—son of a _bitch_—_Relax_, Simon. This is strictly professional. I swear. Besides," he added, massaging his now pink colored cheek, "your back looks like hell. _Nobody_ is going to cop a feel. Not even me. Just—God, don't hit me again."

Hesitantly, I returned to my spot, straddling the log we were seated on, and made sure to face my back in his direction. I felt like a crazy person for lashing out like that, but at that moment, my mind was filled with more pressing matters, like, for instance, making sure my breasts didn't make a guest appearance.

"I'm going to life your shirt now. Do I have permission to launch sequence?" Paul asked dryly, clearly having learned his lesson.

My face fell. "Don't be an ass, Paul. I didn't mean to slap you," I said, "that hard, anyway."

I couldn't see his face, but I could tell he was pretty irritated. At least, by the tone of his next statement, anyway. "Apology accepted. Here, take these."

I craned my neck to see what he was talking about and saw in his hands his glasses. I grabbed them.

"Ooh," Paul uttered softly, after taking a sharp intake of air. His fingertips brushed over my upper back as they held my shirt up. "This looks like it hurts. Does it?"

I rolled my eyes. "No," I said absentmindedly, examining his glasses. They were really nice. I checked the label just to, you know, check out the competition. "I just acted strangely because I have a mild case of epilepsy."

"Cool it, Suze. I'm doing you a favor," Paul chastised. He came back to where he was sitting, carrying what appeared to be some sort of lotion or ointment from Jesse's first aid pack. I was too distracted to question further.

_Simon_. As in Simon by Suze Simon. That was the label that was on Paul's glasses. He owned a pair of my frames. A really nice frame, actually. I didn't know whether to be flattered or weirded out. I got so worked up over it, that I forgot that he could have just picked the frames without even realizing the maker. I mean, Paul wasn't exactly one to notice details like that.

"Ooh, that's cold." A shiver ran up my spine. My back really hurt, but the extreme cold made it feel a little better.

"Just stay still a little longer," Paul demanded. "I'm almost done here."

Finally he finished applying the medicated cream on my back and pulled my shirt back down. His fingers lingered probably longer than was appropriate, but I didn't mention anything. "Well," I eventually said after a loss of what to say, "um . . . thank you."

Paul smirking was the first thing I noticed when I turned around in my seat. The second thing I noticed was that he apparently had no respect for personal space. I literally could have sat on his lap. Not that I would have. I mean, please. How weird/gross would that be?

"Was that as difficult as it looked from my end?" was Paul's reply. Why couldn't he have just said 'you're welcome' like a normal person? "I mean, you looked like your vital organs were failing you," he continued. "Are you sure you're alright?"

I rolled my eyes. "Please. I am not even provoked by your sarcasm anymore. At this age, I am way wiser and pretty much immune to you." I brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. They really were a gorgeous color. His eyes, I mean. "Anyway, I'm just going to pretend you accepted my gratitude, and didn't run amok like some freak."

I rested my hand on the side of his face and examined it. Vince must have been aiming for Paul's nose but missed since his right eye was a plethora of grotesque colors warped into one über, genocidal purple. Even the eyelid looked a little lazy. I brushed the pad of my thumb over the skin under his eye. He flinched. God, I needed a new manicure. Maybe some sort of berry or a sassy tangerine color.

"Suze," Paul said in a strange voice. His adam's apple was bobbing like crazy, "what are you doing?"

Okay, I know what you're thinking. You think I initiated a provocative make-out session, and later, the two of us could keep our passions for each other in check no longer and proceeded to have raunchy, PG-24 sex under the full moon as it reflected off of our glistening, gyrating bodies like some sacred beam of luminescence. Well, in that thinking, you would be wrong. Like _way _wrong. _Disgustingly_ wrong. At that time, I was concerned about his eye. I didn't even think twice about placing my hand on his face. Seriously, not every action I make is to initiate sex. That's really offensive. I mean, geez, I'm still married. I don't hate Vince that much. At least, I don't think I do.

"Eww, my God. Your eye looks terrible!" I said, announcing what Paul most likely knew already. His body stiffened and didn't move a single muscle. "Simon, I bruise ridiculously over-the-top, but it fades quickly. By tomorrow—er, a few hours—it will be gone. So just—" He shifted under my touch. "—leave it alone. Please."

I ignored him and prodded and poked at his eye, checking for serious infection. "Don't be stupid. Just let me put some of this stuff on it. It will at least relieve the pain, if anything."

Paul batted my hand away. "Leave me alone. You are annoying as hell, Suze." He stood up and massaged his cheek as if I had infected it when I touched it. "Just go back to bed."

"You are such a baby," I chastised, standing up myself. My back, surprisingly, felt much better and as I dwelled on it, all the physical excursion from earlier had finally caught up to me. "Have a great rest of the evening or morning rather," I added a little bitterly."

Paul ignored me and resituated himself with his journal. "Sweet dreams," he stated. Then, as either an after thought or a way to antagonize me, he added, "Give Vince a kiss for me."

_Yeah_, I thought angrily as I made my way back to the tent, _the day I kiss that bastard again is the day I'm down a ravine being shot at by military issue helicopters._

Although with what had already happened, that was probably a likely situation.

"G'night, Suze," I heard Paul call after me as the tent flap closed behind me.

**+SS+**

"I could eat a frakking horse right now," a muffled voice was saying outside of my tent. Only, it didn't say 'frakking'. Actually, no one says 'frakking'. Except for people who watch _Battlestar Galactica_ and/ or spend too much time with people who watch it.

I turned over in my sleeping bag and recoiled as my eye was greeted by a thin sliver of bright sunlight pouring through the slit between the tent flaps. I groaned and reclosed my eyes, but to my surprise, I wasn't tired anymore. Actually, what I was, besides feeling energetically refreshed, was really hot. A slick pool of sweat had formed in the valley of my chest. I sat up and ran a hand through my hair. Ugh, I could only imagine how it _looked_.

To compensate for my inadequate grooming, I slipped on a white sundress made of lace and some white Keds. Designed for a warm evening in Philly, but entirely inappropriate for the current surroundings. I shrugged. This was an emergency, and I looked _really_ good in it. Although, the last time I wore it, I wasn't in it very long, if you get what I mean, so I wanted to make up lost time. I slathered on globs of deodorant, not thinking about my back because it wasn't bother me very much.

I grinned reluctantly. Maybe today was just going to be one of _those_ days.

"There she is," Charlie greeted me when I exited the tent. I smiled at him and saw that everyone was seated around the fire pit eating what appeared to be local fruits. Guess we ran out of rations. _Great_. "Did you sleep okay?" Charlie continued. "We were gonna send someone in to get you up, but Paul said you had a late night."

Of _course_ he did. I glared his way, but he seemed impervious to it. Maverick, on the other hand, was not impervious. Whether consciously or subconsciously, he gave me the once over. Oh, yeah. Who still had it? Suze Simon, that's who!

"Oh, you should have sent someone in," I assured him. "Now I've slept in way too late. It's gotta be around noon now."

Jack snorted. "Well, it's not as if we have anywhere to be," he said.

"Yeah," Jesse added. "Plus, after the events of last night, none of us were too eager to begin traveling once again.

Well, I couldn't exactly disagree with them there. I mean, at this point, I was ready to call it quits and go home, but I didn't exactly have a means of transportation. You really underestimate how good you've got it until your plane crashes in the middle of the Amazon that just so happens to be infested with mutant animals and midget cannibals. I would never take in-door plumbing for granted again. Or microwaves for that matter. Or sidewalks. Where else was I supposed to walk in heels?

"So what have we been discussing?" I asked, having devoured that banana in practically a second. It turns out that running for your life can really build up an appetite. I was famished.

"Well," Maverick cleared his throat and began putting more suntan lotion on his legs, "Mr. Slater was just explaining his conclusions regarding the fish we came upon last night. I'm not entirely sure I believe him due to the fact that what he has concluded is positively LUDICROUS!"

"Easy," Vince coaxed, convincing his friend to take his seat again. "Bring it down a notch, Maverick."

"Yeah, the only reason you think its ludicrous is because aliens are in no way involved," Paul fired back. He was right about the bruising thing. You could barely tell he was punched in the face.

Maverick said something I will not repeat of my free will at this time.

"Hey, Maverick, I apologize on _his_ behalf," I said recrossing my legs. It felt so good to be wearing a dress after so long. It felt really . . . feminine. "Anyway, let me in on this. What'd I miss?"

Jack groaned and mimed shooting himself in the mouth. "Oh, here we go again."

Paul, on the other hand, seemed ecstatic to be able to hear the sound of his own voice. "Well, Simon, since you asked so politely and that dress makes you look like an actual female—" I made a rude suggestion involving him and his mother. "—I'll start from the beginning."

It was really difficult to keep from making a sarcastic comment of feigned glee, but I managed to do so. After all, I was interested, even if, knowing these guys, it would take six decades before we actually got to the point.

"As you know," Paul began, taking his job as teacher very seriously, "each organism has a distinctive life cycle. They have a particular pattern of growth and change that rarely differs from generation to generation. Of course, their environments play a part on how they adapt, but essentially they have a distinctive life cycle. With me so far?"

I nodded.

"Good. Now, there are these things called limiting factors that obstruct population growth. For instance," Paul explained, "an unexpected change in color on leaves would be a limiting factor to a group of insects that rely on that specific color for camouflaging purposes. Also, predators could be called limiting factors. This is where Darwinism comes into play."

"Now Darwin I know," I exclaimed, pleased with myself. "He was that guy that spouted all that evolution junk, right? And something about a beagle?"

Paul flinched, obviously hurting from my lack of knowledge and technical vocab. "I think you're thinking about the _H.M.S. Beagle_, the ship he traveled around the world in, but that's beside the point. Basically, you are right though, except that the 'evolution junk' you mentioned was not the only contribution Darwin made. He coined a term called 'Survival of the Fittest'. Naval powerhouses in the 1890's interpreted the term in a different way, but in nature, it essentially states that the organisms that survive are the ones that are best adapted to their environment. 'Fit' didn't necessarily mean 'strong'. A taller bird could be more fit than a shorter bird merely because its height allows him food, while the shorter one starves."

"Uh, come again?" I demanded. Somewhere in the back of my head, I heard the Scarecrow's 'If I Only Had a Brain', but I ignored it.

"Basically," Vince took over, "each population of organisms is best suited to a certain niche. Penguins live in cool climates while cacti live in dry climates because they can produce their own water. But because they each fit in so well, limiting factors are needed, like predators, or else there would be massive numbers of penguins. The 'fittest' of the species are the ones that overcome the limiting factors."

I smiled, comprehension finally dawning on me. You know that feeling you get when you finally understand something? It feels so good. "Oh, so it's like when there's a twenty percent discount off Prada slides. The taller woman is the more 'fit' specie because she can reach the last pair off the top shelf while the short woman 'dies out' because she's stuck with those heinous Aerosoles."

Vince grinned. "Exactly."

His smile was so nice, I almost forgot I was mad at him. Almost. "So what does this have to do with anything?" I asked. See what I mean about the six decades thing?

"I'm getting to that," Paul replied defensively. Did I mention he was wearing a fedora? Seriously. A _fedora_. "So one of the major problems with rainforests like this is deforestation which is essentially when huge portions of the forests are destroyed by corporate companies or whomever. The result is that the nutrients in the soil change, and climates change. As you can imagine, for an organism, like our piranha buddies, that's used to warm climates, this could have a detrimental outcome."

"So what you're saying is . . ."

"What I'm saying, Suze, if you'll stop interrupting me is that because these creatures are faced with this type of limiting factor, they need to change or _evolve_."

I frowned. That was the lamest explanation ever. "So you're telling me," I wanted to know, "that because a few thousand trees were destroyed, an entire population of piranhas grew legs? I'm sorry, but I have to agree with Maverick. That's just about the lamest thing I have ever heard. Besides: doesn't evolution have to occur over billions of years or something?"

Paul groaned. "Well, e-essentially with some types, yeah, but I'm not done. Just—listen until I'm done, okay?" I refused to acknowledge that demand with a remark. "I assume you know what DNA is?"

I rolled my eyes angrily. "I know what DNA is, jackass. Don't patronize me."

"Oh, c'mon, Paul, even I knew that one," Jack remarked dryly.

Paul threw his arms up in an 'I surrender' type gesture. "Just making sure. Anyway, so in an organism's DNA, there are these things called Hox genes. They're like the master control genes that control growth as the embryo develops. They establish the overall body plan and determine growth of body parts. Like in an insect, for instance, the hox genes would decide whether it had three or four segments, and whether each segment had one, two, or three wings on each one. What I think has happened to our fish friends is some sort of mutation that has caused the hox genes to go out of whack."

"See!" Maverick interrupted in indignation. "That's what I don't get. I understand that mutations happen in DNA all the time, but they're usually minimal. What could have caused these fish to have mutated to such a degree that they're growing legs?"

He had a point. Unfortunately, instead of acknowledging that, Paul scowled and said acidly, "I said I had a theory. I didn't say I was the mother _freaking_ Know All. I have no idea what would have caused it."

Sheez! Someone had woken up on the wrong side of the, er . . . ground? Vince played mediator since he and Paul didn't really have any qualms concerning the whole punch last night. Apparently guys have a really weird sense of camaraderie and friendship. But, hey, who was I to judge? I didn't have a single girl friend. Except for maybe Naomi. If we wanted to talk about weird friend rituals, we should first discuss my whole not having any.

"So let's get to the damn point already," Charlie suggested. I couldn't have agreed with him more. Actually, the more I sat there, the antsier I got. Weren't we kind of open game sitting here? Who knew when the next flank of undead would come along.

"This morning I performed an autopsy on one of the fish from last night," Jesse informed us. None of us asked him how he had managed to get his hands on one of the fish. Also, I don't think any of us cared. "Typically, fish are categorized under the phylum _chordata_. Organisms in this category have a back bone, a notochord, and a tail extending past the anus. Our little guy had all of these except for the back bone."

Vince frowned. "Wait. You're tellin' us that organism had no spine?" he asked incredulously. "That's ridiculous. The only nonvertebrates categorized under _chordata_ are tunicates and lancelets, but that fish sure as hell wasn't one of them."

"Which was exactly what I thought," Jesse replied, with a nod. "But as it turns out, the organism has an exoskeleton."

We were all speechless. Well, most of us were falling asleep, but not me. I was too involved. "Exoskeleton?" I repeated. I racked my brain for my tenth grade biology class. "That's when the, um . . . skeleton is on the outside, right?"

Jesse nodded emphatically. "Precisely."

"But fish don't have exoskeletons," I found myself saying. Suddenly hoards of old cartoons depicting someone eating fish began playing in my mind. Whenever they ate a fish, there was always a tiny skeleton left. "Wouldn't an exoskeleton have to be really tough? I mean, from my knowledge, fish are kind of squishy. Granted, I've never been up close and personal to a piranha, but I assume the same squishy factor can be applied."

Once again, Jesse nodded. "Not only does this unidentified organism have legs, but an exoskeleton as well. Also, judging from its ability to survive on land, and my findings this morning, these things can switch between lungs and gills."

I scoffed. Suddenly I was the expert on the subject. Can't lie: it felt kind of nice. "But that's not so unusual, right? I mean, look at frogs."

"True," Vince admitted, taking over for Jesse, "but the thing about amphibians is that their skin has to be moist, usually from mucus secretions, to be able to breathe on land. Our little buddy had no pores on his exoskeleton, and it was as dry as a drought filled summer."

"Well, great, but what does that _mean_?" I asked. The climax hadn't exactly been as informative or as exciting as I thought it would be. Wasn't there supposed to be some sort of alien abduction involved or something?

"What it means, _Suze_," Paul stated, taking over his original position of The Informer, "is that the organisms in this jungle—the piranhas, that thing that took out Charlie's eye—are jacked. They're evolving so ridiculously fast—it's taking them hours to do what would normally have to take millions of millions of years. Soon enough, these things'll become so 'fit', they will literally wipe out the entire human population. The hunter will become the hunted."

I snorted. Well, at least PETA would be having its hay day. Wait! What was I saying? Annihilation of the human population? Really fast evolution? It sounded like the plot to that absurd movie _Evolution_. Fish didn't kill people. _People_ killed people. Hadn't they ever seen _Court TV_? Then again . . .

Could it be possible? Could we have stumbled across something that wasn't a movie at all, but in fact a serious threat that faced anyone that was human? Even worse, was my father somehow involved? Or had he been a victim years ago?

And was it actually possible for fish to grow _feet_?

I took a deep, shuddering breath. Somehow all we had been through didn't really count. Somehow, _this_ was the point of no return. It was either throw away my cynicism and have faith in something for the first real time in my life or turn my head and walk the other way. Sure, the no transportation thing made my pickings slim, but I actually wanted to pick the first option. I wanted to see this thing through to the end.

"So what do we do?" I asked, standing up. A sudden rush of endorphins seemed to scour through my veins. This was the first step towards being happy with me, myself. It wasn't much, but I knew it had to get better than this. "I believe you. I'm in this. What do we do?" I asked again. "I want to help."

"Well, the first thing I suggest we do is pack up," Charlie answered, placing his sidearm in the back of his pants. "We've only got a few hours of good daylight left, and judging by what happened last night, I suggest we try to find higher ground.

Jack stood up, too. "I agree. Only, I really think we should take the time to comb the surrounding area for one of those symbols again. From what Paul's gathered and Maverick's told me, the last two symbols were a good fifteen hundred feet apart." He took his M4 from its spot next to him, and slung the strap over his shoulder. "If I've kept track correctly, we're about the same distance away, so if those things really do form a path, then the next one should be somewhere in our vicinity."

"What are we waiting for?" I wanted to know. "Let's do this."

**+SS+**

"Charles Darwin's wife was named Susannah, you know."

I turned around and groaned. _Oh, no!_ Paul was running to catch up to me. Naturally, I sped my pace up, but wouldn't my luck have it, my Ked got stuck in an uprooted tree root, and I fell flat on my face. Before I fell flat on my face, a single thought crossed my mind. What happened to Maverick? He was right behind me, like, a second ago.

"Really?" I asked, feigning interest, and accepting Paul's unwarranted help as he raised me to my feet. "I had no idea."

Paul steadied me on my feet and brushed some loose debris off my shoulder. So much for wearing white in the jungle. Or a dress, for that matter. _Eww_, was that a spider on the hem? "It's true," Paul emphasized, mistaking my lack of interest for disbelief. "Maybe you've got more of this nature stuff in your blood than you realize."

I finished clearing myself of debris and blew a piece of hair out of my face _Free Willy_ style. "Somehow, I seriously doubt that." Paul let go of me and began searching the trees around us. Today, he had on a pair of white jogging shorts and a royal blue t-shirt along with that stupid hat. I waved him off. "I already searched this area. What are you doing here, anyway?" I wanted to know.

"One of the unspoken rules is that we shouldn't wander off by ourselves," he reminded me as he came back to where I was standing.

"Okay," I explained, "first of all, I was not _wandering_, and second, I was with Maverick. Or at least . . . I thought I was. Did you see him go off?"

Paul shook his head. "You were all by your lonesome when I came across you. Even Vince was keeping his distance."

"Ha-ha, you're hilarious," I quipped facetiously. "Not." I didn't let on to how much it actually hurt, and that, really, I missed talking to him. A lot. "Actually, though, I'm glad you are here," I surprised myself by saying. It then dawned on me that had a question for him. "I want to ask you something."

"Shoot." He gestured forward, and I fell into step along side him as we continued to walk through the dense tree growth.

"Okay, well, you fully explained the creepy animals thing back at the camp," I began.

"Uh-huh."

"And, well, I wanted to ask you about—"

"Hey, guys." It was Jack. What was this, a Slater family reunion?

"Scram, Tripod."

"I have every right to be here, plus, she's married, dickhead. Stop trying so hard."

"I said—" Paul growled angrily, "—beat it!"

Jack was about to say something else, but I interrupted, and linked arms with him. "Jack's my friend, and he can stay if he wants to. God, Paul, what is your malfunction?"

I'm pretty sure I only imagined Jack sticking his tongue out at his older brother in my peripheral as I stared at Paul, waiting for a response. His jaw clenched rigidly, but he didn't say anything. I ignored it and continued walking.

"You were in the middle of asking me something before Dipshit over here interrupted," Paul inquired of me.

It took me a moment to recollect the conversation before I remembered once again what I had wanted to ask. "Oh, yeah," I said. "Well, what I wanted to know was how do you explain the other thing?"

"The other thing?" Paul repeated with an inquisitive eyebrow raised.

I nodded. "Yeah, the, um, paranormal thing."

Paul, still confused beyond belief, just stared at me, gesturing in a manner that suggested he was trying to coax the answers out of me. Jack clarified. "She means the ghosts."

I flinched. "Jack, you open your mouth one more time," Paul roared menacingly, "I swear to God, I will—!"

"—You'll what?" Jack wanted to know, fully egging his brother on. I rolled my eyes. What was with these two? "You gonna knock me out like Vince did to you? There's a reason I'm in the Marines and you teach at some secluded university in Washington. It's because you're a pus—I-I mean, a pansy. You're a freaking pansy."

Paul was silent. They both stared at each other with a red, hot malice in the cores of their eyes. You could literally cut the tension with a knife. All I knew was that I did _not_ want to be hit in the crossfire. Lord knows my glutes were already killing me from all the running yesterday.

"Okay," I mediated, placing a hand on Jack's shoulder. I looked between the both of them. "That's enough. There will be no fighting on my watch, especially fighting to prove, essentially, who has the bigger penis. We all know who has won in that category." Jack beamed. "So why don't we get back to my question."

"About the paranormal?" Paul asked.

"About the paranormal," I confirmed.

* * *

**July, Present Day**

**1400 Hours**

**Somewhere in the Amazon**

Felicity Grabowski claimed a tree stump with her boot. Her sleeves were rolled up, her hair was a mess, and her blouse was mostly unbuttoned, but no matter what she did she couldn't escape the heat. It was worse than the Sahara, she decided.

She hadn't gotten an ounce of sleep last night because everyone was on guard duty after the homicides of their fellow officers. Just to think about it again had Felicity's stomach in knots. How had whatever it was killed so many men in that allotted amount of time? She hated not having answers. Had she been asked again a few months ago, she never would have taken this assignment on. Even with all its damned fortune and glory.

"Agent Grabowski!"

Felicity turned around and saw Leibowitz, the computer guy, from last night. Instead of looking frantic, he looked pleased with himself. She gestured for him to continue.

"For whatever reason, we got the GPS up and—"

At the sound of 'GPS', Felicity did not even have to hear the rest. She followed Leibowitz back to a cluster of soldiers gathered around the mentioned piece of equipment. While the others looked pleased, probably at the prospect of going home soon, General Holdren looked positively joyous.

"What seems to be the problem, Dax?" she asked, gathering her hair in a hair tie.

"Problem?" he repeated incredulously. He laughed like a crazed lunatic. "No, no. There's no problem here. Take a look."

The contraption was handed to her, and she looked at the sweeping line on the screen. At first she didn't see anything, but upon further inspection, she noticed a faint dot near the edge of the screen. "What is that?" she asked.

"That," Holdren explained, "is our ticket out of here. That . . . is a human life form."

Felicity's heart stopped. Were they really that close? "Are you sure?"

He nodded, as a menacing grin exploded over his face. "That double-crossing bitch will regret the day she ever messed with General Dax Holdren."

* * *

**July, Present Day**

**South America**

**Somewhere in the Amazon**

The area ahead of us was strangely bare of trees, although a canopy of tree tops still covered any exposure from serious sunlight, much like the area from the other day. I stopped walking. Not because I had made a connection, although I should have. I _so _should have. But because I didn't quite understand what Paul had just said.

"Wait, so you're telling me these . . . _things_ are Nazi scavengers?" I repeated incredulously. I felt like I had just landed smack dab in the middle of an Indiana Jones chronicle.

Paul looked at me. "What? No. Have you even been listening to me?" He questioned, pacing around aimlessly. "Francisco de Orellana was a _conquistador_, not a Nazi. He was a celebrated war hero, and like Columbus and Magellan, his objective was to bring part of the Americas under Spanish rule."

I took a moment to collect my thoughts. Was it my imagination, or did it feel cooler? "So . . . this Francisco guy," I articulated, "he's important, how?"

"Well, like I said, he was a celebrated war hero who ranked lieutenant under this guy named Gonzalo Pizarro," Paul explained, ignoring Jack's declaration of 'Hey, I'm a lieutenant, too'. "The two become such good friends, that in 1541, they decide to combine forces and recruit some of their other friends as well as a vast majority of natives to begin an expedition east of Quito in search of 'La Canela'."

Jack, who had been chewing what I hoped was gum, spit it out onto the forest floor. "What the hell is la canela? Is that like a cannoli or something?"

"'La Canela' literally means cinnamon," Paul enlightened us, "but back in those times, it was the name given to a place they referred to as the 'Valley of Cinnamon'."

Jack and I exchanged glances. Was he for real? "They went on an expedition for ordinary table spice?" I inquired skeptically. "That's pretty much the stupidest thing I have ever heard of."

"You don't understand. Back in those times, spices were really uncommon, and therefore, you'd have to be pretty loaded to get your hands on some. So imagine what two schmucks with an entire valley of spices could do. Early retirement," Paul listed, "all the hot chicks in Madrid, hell, they could probably even do Queen Isabela with that kind of change."

"Still seems pretty stupid to me," I scoffed, running my fingers through my hair. "I mean, there are only so many things you can put cinnamon on, like applesauce, for instance. Did it come anniversary time, and they were all, 'Honey, you'll never guess what I got for our golden. Cinnamon!' Because, seriously, if Vince ever gave me cinnamon for my anniversary, I would so be like, 'See ya!'"

"Well," Paul said sweetly with an annoying smile, "that would actually constitute him having to talk to you first."

Before I could take a swing at him, and believe me, there was one coming, Jack asked, "So did they ever reach this 'La Canela' then?"

Paul shrugged and toyed with a leaf he had ripped off of one of the tree's branches earlier, "Well, sort of. See, this 'Valley of Cinnamon' was actually more of a legendary location, like 'El Dorado', than an actual place. Columbus made reports of all these new findings and riches, and suddenly, the whole country was overcome by wealth fever."

"So is that a 'yes' or a 'no'?" I asked innocently, as I twirled a strand of hair around my finger. "Because it was kind of hard to tell what with all the big headed-ness."

Paul scowled. "Well, you see, _Suuuzie_, Orellana and Pizarro combined their teams and began their expedition down the Amazon River, but somewhere down the line, Orellana's ship was separated from the main fleet. Later, his ship was attacked by a tribe of female warriors—"

"The Amazons!" Jack contributed to our discussion. We both stared at him blankly. "You know," he tried to explain, "like _Xena: Warrior Princess_? They were Amazons. That's probably who attacked this Francisco guy."

"You," I said dryly, "have _way_ too much time on your hands."

"Anyway, as I was saying," Paul continued, shaking his head as if to rid it of Jack's inane inclusions, "his ship was attacked by a tribe of female warriors, most likely male natives with long hair, and not a single member on that ship was ever heard from again."

"So you think," Jack spoke, catching on, "that these ghosts, or rather, poltergeists who have been attacking us are the crew members from Orellana's ship?"

Paul nodded, a smile of pride tugging at the corner of his lips. "Exactly. Those tribe members must have been guarding something," he went on to say. "It wasn't as if Orellana and his crew were raping and pillaging or anything, and I'm pretty sure the tribe was not cannibalistic. My theory is that he got too close, and that the reason the tribe attacked was because they were guarding La Canela."

For some odd reason, my heart began beating rampantly in my chest, like I had run a marathon or something. "So you think it's real?" I asked, quietly for some reason. "This La Canela, I mean."

Once again, Paul nodded. "And I think that Orellana and his men—the ghosts, I mean—have taken over as guardians. I think that like them, we're getting too close to something we shouldn't be, and once we find La Canela, a lot of questions will be answered, including your Dad's whereabouts and these creepy ass organisms that keep popping up conveniently."

Jack frowned. "So all this—" He made some sort of weird gesture that must have meant 'all inclusive', "—is related?"

If Paul kept up this nodding business, his neck was certainly going to snap clear off. "As far as I'm concerned, yeah. I have a pretty good feeling it is."

All I could do was stare, as each of us stayed silent for a good five minutes. It felt like one of those power moments in movies from the 80s right before the credits roll where some crazy power ballad or Pat Benetar song comes blaring on after the hero gets the girl or the bad guys are taken down. I could almost hear 'Heartbreaker'.

"How do you know all of this?" I asked, finally voicing what Jack and I were both thinking. Honestly, I thought Paul was just a man of science.

Paul cracked a smile. "I watch the History Channel a lot," he explained. "Plus, ever since I was a kid, I've just liked history. A lot," he added at the dumb look on my face.

I was going to say something, I was, but a rustle in the tree leaves stopped me right in my tracks. The blood in my veins ran cold, and my muscles turned to stone. Spirit like chanting flooded the canopy above us. It was happening again. Orellana and his men were here again. _Oh, no!_

"Let's go," Jack urged, looking every which way, and getting a head start. "Let's go!"

He didn't have to tell me twice. Happily, I joined both he and Paul's side, and the three of us ran like our lives depended on it, which, coincidentally, it sort of did.

"We're gonna play this out just like last time," Jack demanded, happy to be in charge and in his element once again. I felt a strange sort of comfort knowing that someone was doing the decision making for me. "Paul, you team up with Charlie and Jesse. I'll team up with Maverick, and, Suze, you take—"

"—Vince, yeah, thanks," I muttered angrily. "I kind of got that by process of elimination."

"Good, then we're settled," Jack said, his voice wavering with each step he took. I saw a drop of sweat drop from the tip of his nose. "On the count of three, we split. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Got it."

_One . . ._

_Two . . ._

"Three!"

I couldn't even tell you what direction I took. All I knew was that wherever I ran to, I ran faster than I ever had in my entire life. At some point, when I got the time to actually think to myself, I thought maybe we had overreacted, but then I heard that unmistakable screech. Seriously, not a single sound in existence can be used for comparison. There's nothing like it.

Whether God was on my side or not, I managed to find Vince. I stopped only momentarily and grabbed his arm, rather harshly. The poor guy looked elated that I had started speaking to him again. For a moment, I stopped. Maybe he was as messed up about us not talking as I was. I brushed the thought aside. We had to get out of here.

"Vince, we have to get out of here," I informed him urgently.

He steadied me by grabbing onto my shoulders. "Whoa, slow it down, darlin'. What's up?"

I shook my head fervently. "No time. Remember those things that attacked us before the fish? The things we couldn't see?"

"Well, yeah," Vince replied reluctantly, "but—"

"We _have_ to go," I stressed, pulling him along. "Please. I am not kidding."

"Okay, then," he agreed. "Lead the way."

I did exactly that. As the two of us ran, I guided us through uncharted territory, as far as I knew, anyway. Tree branches, insects, all of it was a blur as we rushed past it at light-like speeds. I lost my footing once, but Vince grabbed hold and didn't let go. We were, in theory, the perfect team.

Right before I heard a second screech, something hard hit me on the back of the head. This time, I did lose my footing, but Vince didn't stop it. I struggled to keep my eyes open as unconsciousness threatened to take over and made an effort to stand up. I swayed, totally disconcerted, trying to take in my surroundings bit by bit. When my head had finally cleared a little, the first thing I noticed as I looked around was that Vince, who had been there a second ago, was nowhere to be seen. The second thing I noticed was that the first thing was actually completely wrong and that Vince was being dragged away by two soldier zombies.

"Vince, hang in there!" I cried, more for myself than anything. I couldn't hear his response, but if I couldn't see my attackers, I'd be pretty scared shitless myself.

When I realized I didn't have a single weapon on hand, my hands began to shake, and my legs took off with a mind of their own. Maybe Vince turned the other way when danger struck, but not me. Not Suze Simon. I couldn't live with myself if I let him get away.

No matter how fast I ran, Vince kept getting farther and farther away, yelling for his life. My legs began to ache, and I was even sweatier than this morning, but I didn't care. The only thing I could focus on was getting Vince to safety, but no matter what I did, he kept getting further out of reach.

It was then that I spotted it. The ravine, up ahead. The one Vince would surely drop to if the creatures didn't let go of him. Tears streamed down my face as I pushed every ounce of energy possible into my legs at that moment.

I would just jump. Simple as that. As soon as I came to the edge, I would jump across the ravine. Speed certainly wasn't an issue, if my legs could attest to it. And I was going to. Jump, I mean. But as soon as my knees bent to give me thrust, arms wrapped around my midsection and pulled me back.

"Suze, you're going to kill yourself!" Maverick yelled at me, his hold on me surprisingly strong. But I was never one to give up without a good fight.

"Let me go!" I cried, writhing in his grasp. It was only then that I noticed I was crying. "I have to get to Vince. They're going to _kill_ him!"

I watched in horror as the creatures began swinging across the ravine on vines up above, with Vince loosely grasped in their decaying talons. There had to be some way to get him. Some way to catch up.

Out of my peripheral, I saw that the rest of the gang had caught up. How embarrassing that they would see me cry. How embarrassing that they would see me, essentially, kill my husband.

"VINCE!" I cried again, clutching fistfuls of Mavericks shirt, as I watched him get smaller and smaller as the seconds passed by. My voice cracked and heaved with every gut wrenching sob that was ripped from my body. I couldn't feel. Physically, mentally, none of it. I was helpless.

I watched, helplessly, until I couldn't see Vince at all anymore. It was then that I broke, sobbing uncontrollably into the front of Maverick's shirt. I collapsed to the ground and everything went black.

* * *

**TG/N: I'm sure my English teacher will be totally understanding when I tell her that, no, I did not work on my research paper, and yes, I did update Simon Says. All I know is that I am PSYCHED that it is finally updated. This chapter contained a lot of information, so hopefully, I didn't bore you. Also, I apologize for spelling/grammatical errors. I didn't go through this a second time, so it's probably terrible. Anyway, sorry for taking SOO long.**

**With love,  
****The General**


	11. Heat of the Moment

**TG/N: **So when I started this story back in 2005, I never figured I would still be writing it well into my graduating year of high school/first year of college. But I'm kind of glad it ended up this way because my writing has improved by the bucket load since I started, and this story is my baby. Out of all the fan fiction I have done for the Mediator section, this piece is by far my favorite thing I have ever written. Somewhat because it contains emotional development _and_ AK-47s, but also because it showcases what I feel to be some of my best writing. Yes, there are a few sections I could have improved upon, but overall for me, it's about as perfect as I could possibly get. And what absolutely floors me is the positive response it has received over the years, despite infrequent updates, despite fish with legs, _despite_ the many rip-offs of _The Mummy_ and this book I read two years ago (_Amazonia_ by James Rollins) which is basically where the central plot came from. I thank you. All of you for your inclusions, your compliments, your praise, and your loyalty. Nothing has made me happier than when I check my e-mail, and I find out that I have received a review for "Simon Says: HELP ME!"

I have had this chapter planned since way back in 2005 (part of it, at least), so I needed its execution to be perfect. Two years ago, I don't know if I could have written it as well. Hence, glad that I'm writing it now when my writing is a lot better. I promised that with "Simon Says" I would keep my General's notes short, if any at all, plus, if this chapter turns out to actually _decrease_ readership, I will feel like an ass for getting all nostalgic and sappy about it. So I'll let you decide for yourself what you think. Again, I thank all of you for reveading. Plus, it's my birthday today, so as a gift _please_ review? Shameless bribery, yes, but I am not above this, lol.

* * *

**Carmel, California**

**May, 1989**

**Ackerman Household**

"Mom?"

The reply I received was silence. Well, except for the faint creak of the second to last step on the staircase, but I barely even noticed it anymore. After two years, it was nice to be home again. Even if the circumstances surrounding my homecoming were not exactly golden. But if there was one thing that never failed to cheer me up, it was a Diet Coke. Besides stirrup pants, neon colors, mousse, and hairspray, I mean, which is basically the uniform of recovery.

As I walked into the kitchen, I realized the entire house was empty. Not only did the silence tip me off, but the kitchen was spotless, which meant that in addition to my mom, Andy and his kids were out, too. This I could get used to, I decided as opened the refrigerator door. Just as I was about to grab a Diet Coke, the doorbell rang. With an annoyed sigh, I placed the soda can on the counter top and answered the door. I was not, in any way, expecting the person standing behind the door, his fist raised as he prepared to knock again.

"Vince!"

Immediately, he looked up from the ground and realized I was standing in the doorway. Apparently, he was as surprised to see me as I was him. "Suze," he said, turning his gaze toward his still raised fist. Hastily, he shoved it behind his back in embarrassment. "I, uh . . . I thought you weren't supposed to be home for another two weeks."

"I'm not," I explained, but then I realized that sounded almost incomprehensible, so I reiterated, "I mean, I was supposed to, but there was a sudden change in plans." I ushered him inside, realizing a conversation in the doorway was not exactly polite. "But, uh, come in, come in! What are you doing all the way out here?" I asked, leading him into the living room.

He took a seat on our large, white couch, and I glanced at the kitchen longingly, but ultimately decided that drinking my Diet Coke would be a hostessing faux pas in lieu of company, so I took a seat next to him.

"Well, I, uh, I had a few days off, and I figured I would make my way out here to check up on yer mom, actually," he admitted, sounding almost as if he regretted relaying that information to me for fear I would think he was crazy. He shouldn't have worried though because I found the gesture sweet, if only a tad chauvinistic. My mother was not one of those women who needed checking up on. Plus, she did have Andy.

"Oh, well, she's not exactly here right now," I relayed to him, sounding like more of an idiot as the seconds dwindled, "but you are welcome to stay and wait if you want."

Vince took the time to remove his cowboy hat, to set it on the sofa's arm, and to grin at me. "Thanks, I think I'll take you up on that offer," he said, running a hand through his hair. His hair was a gorgeous, opaque black which coincided nicely with the deep, navy-blue of his eyes.

As I feared, an incredibly awkward silence followed, so I took the time to observe Vince Luxmoore whom I had not seen in a good six or so years. I may have been suffering from a recent break up, but I wasn't _blind_. In addition to being incredibly smart, Vince also had an impeccable fashion sense. Clad in a white leisure suit and pink shirt, he looked like a wannabe Sonny Crockett from _Miami Vice_, but far more handsome. Except . . . he was off limits. Ignoring the fact that I was on the rebound and still grieving over Paul (to be perfectly honest, not really since I was the one to break up with _him_), there was that pesky age gap and the fact that, as of the break up, I had given up dating any of my father's apprentices. Plus, he had a girlfriend that I knew of. Obviously.

Despite his shyness and tendency to ramble on about subject matter that far surpassed my brain's thought process, he had a great sense of humor and was totally chivalrous, which made him a catch. Or, at least, that's what I had been told anyway.

"So, how is school going for you now?" I questioned lamely. When in doubt, ask a super lame question about schooling was my motto. Not. "You are still in school, right?"

Vince nodded. "I'm still in school," he informed me, sounding a little annoyed about it. "My mom got extremely ill while I was working on my master's, and then I—stupidly—earned myself a serious knee injury, so I ended up taking an entire year off."

Without really meaning to, I placed a hand on his knee in condolence. It just sort of happened. "I am so sorry," I apologized, really meaning it. Bertie Jo—his mom—was one of the sweetest ladies on the entire planet. "I had no idea. Is she all right now? Your mom, I mean?"

Vince's eyes focused on mine, and not for the first time, I was forcefully reminded of the ocean or sapphires before they are cut and polished. "I wouldn't say she could run a 5K marathon, but she is recovering nicely," he stated with a small smile. Then, he added, "And in any case, she could still whup my hide, health or none."

I laughed. If it was strange to be sitting in this house, having _this _conversation, I didn't let on because since the break up, instead of feeling so mellow and neutral, I felt like myself again. Only a little happier. How weird was that?

"Anyway," he continued, "I'm workin' on my doctorate, and in a few weeks, I am done with school for the foreseeable future."

"That has _got_ to be a great feeling," I sighed, pulling my feet up and under me, Indian-style. "As opposed to, you know, having, like, three more years to go."

He laughed. "Trust me, it all goes by in the blink of an eye," he assured me. "Before you know it, you'll be livin' in a one-bedroom apartment—that's infested with roaches—and payin' off student loans you can't afford." He smiled. "It's _great_."

While laughing, I punched him on the arm playfully. "Shut up! You are supposed to be making me feel better about the situation, not worse!" I protested. "I mean, on top of a recent break up, this is just _brutal_—"

"You and Paul broke up?" he asked, sort of ignoring my rapier wit. It was difficult to pinpoint any kind of emoting, but overall, he seemed surprised.

"Um, yes," I answered. Then, something occurred to me. "Wait a minute. How did you know I was with Paul?"

"We talk," was his vague reply.

I frowned. "I thought you two didn't even associate anymore."

"We talk infrequently," he reiterated.

"How often is 'infrequently'?" I wanted to know. Now I was kind of annoyed. I mean, how often did Paul talk to Vince? And, furthermore, how much information concerning our relationship did he pass on to him? They were, after all, friends, and I knew what kind of conversation topics floated around guy friends. I had seen _Animal House_. "And what, exactly," I added, "did he say about me?"

Compared to a few moments ago, I sounded way defensive, and Vince was shocked and confused by the sudden turn around. "What? Nothin', Suze, I—"

I grabbed his shirt front and yanked him toward me menacingly. With teeth bared, I demanded forcefully, "What did he tell _you_?"

"Whoa, WHOA, Suze!" Vince grasped my shoulders with both of his massive, tanned hands and steadied me. "We corresponded once last Christmas," he informed me in what I supposed was a soothing manner. "He happened to mention—in passing—he had a girlfriend. And I happened to ask who he was seein' nowadays. And he just _happened_ to mention your name. That's it. I swear!"

Immediately, I felt my face redden considerably. "Oh," I said quietly, embarrassed enough to last me well into my sixties. Seriously, fire trucks looked pink in comparison to my face. "Sorry," I lamented, flinching just the smallest bit. Then I realized I had nearly choked a guy I barely knew, and I felt even more like a lunatic. "And I'm sorry about the whole—" He had by this time relinquished his grasp of my shoulders, so I gestured a crazy choking motion. He smiled.

"Apology accepted," Vince acknowledged. "After all, you're handlin' this a lot better'n I handled things when Rebecca broke things off with me." Suddenly, I felt warm at the thought of Vince being newly single. Not that I was interested. "I was like a damned leaky faucet, what with all the cryin'. I was so gone, I even cried through the entirety of _Police Academy 2 _one Saturday night."

I gasped. I couldn't tell which was more appalling: crying through _Police Academy 2_ or actually watching _Police Academy 2_, on a Saturday night, nonetheless. "You did _not_!"

He nodded, a small smile on his face. "I did," he assured me. "To tell you the truth, I never admitted that to anyone before. Yer the first."

I tried to hold it in; honestly, I did, but I laughed anyway. "You are so . . . _dorky_!" I cried, laughter erupting out of me like a volcano.

"Oh, well, thank you very much!" Vince said sarcastically. "I make you the sole benefactor of my most well guarded secret, and you call me a dork. I am touched. _Really_."

"I'm sorry!" I apologized when I could finally get a breath in from laughing so hard. "It's just—well, it's just hard to get the image of you weeping softly to Phil Collins songs out of my head."

"No, no, I get it," he assured me with a small chuckle. "Admittedly, it is kind of lame, but in no way was Phil Collins involved, understand? Journey, maybe." I giggled. "But absolutely no Phil."

I nodded. "Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night, Vince."

After laughing, his voice took on a somber quality. "All joking aside," he stated seriously, placing a hand around one of mine. When it covered mine entirely, he gave it a quick squeeze, "you'll make it through this. Trust me. If yer anything like yer father, you have determination and self-preservation up the wazzoo. 'Sides, things will get easier. Just, you know, gather all yer Pat Benetar and Foreigner albums together and wait things out."

My heart swelled. How could someone I rarely ever talked to be so nice to me? It was enough to make me cry, but I didn't. Thankfully. My eye make-up was way rad. "Thank you. That's sweet," I said.

Vince grinned. "Well, I, uh," he tripped over his words, almost nervously it seemed, "just . . . if you need to vent, maybe we could go get a drink some time or even a whole meal—"

The door to the house opened, interrupting Vince's thought. We both craned our necks (Vince even went so far as to jump out of his seat) to see who the intruder was. It was my mother.

"I leave for an hour, and my daughter invites a handsome young man over to mingle with," she teased playfully. Her hands were filled with groceries in brown, paper bags, and her face looked sun kissed, if a little sunburned. California definitely agreed with her.

As if on cue, Vince blushed beet red and smiled awkwardly while I made an effort to hide my face and admonish her with a blanched, "_Mom_!"

"What?" she wanted to know, with one of her secretive smiles. "He _is_ handsome."

Vince blushed even more as I acknowledged her feigned ignorance with a knowing glance. "You know exactly 'what'," I insisted, my hands on my hips.

"Here, Mrs. Ackerman," Vince offered, lifting the grocery bags into his own arms like they were filled with air, "let me take those for you."

"Oh, Vincent, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Helen?" my mom asked. She took her coat off and hung it on the coat rack by the door. At this rate, I was never going to be able to accept Vince's invitation for drinks. The prospect of talking to him again—privately—was one that, okay, made me really excited. In my brain, I could think of the perfect pair of ankle boots for the occasion. "Really, after twenty some years of knowing you," she continued, "I would like to think we are on a first name basis."

Vince laughed politely. "I blame my mother entirely for my complete inability to veer from my manners booklet," he lamented over his shoulder as he walked towards the kitchen. "I meant no disrespect . . . Helen," he finished lamely.

"That's better," she smiled. "Just set those bags on the counter then, Vincent. I'll put them away later. I appreciate it."

When she had finally made her way up the stairs, I followed Vince into the kitchen, eager to pick up our conversation where we left off. Although drinks were a high improbability, since I was still underage, I still couldn't get over the fact that, momentarily anyway, my age seemed to slip from Vince's mind, and he considered me as his equal. However, I was left hanging. Figuratively speaking, of course.

"Hey, Suze, you wanna hand me those legumes and take care of the flour?" Vince asked me when he saw me enter the kitchen.

Caught completely off guard, I complied with his request. "Oh, uh, sure. No problem."

"Thank you kindly."

The topic of drinks was never brought up again.

* * *

**July, Present day**

**South America**

**Somewhere in the Amazon**

Two weeks had gone by since Vince was abducted, and there was absolutely no sign of him. Food was running low. Morale was even lower. And temperaments were high. We were hot, we were tired, we were dirty, but most of all, we were sick. Sick of trekking through the damned Amazon. Sick of wandering around like nomads with no sense of direction.

"Susannah, we have to stop," I heard Jesse say from behind me. His breath came out in heavy spurts. "We have walked for a good four hours now, and I am exhausted."

"You'll live," I quipped brusquely, neither stopping, nor turning to face him. Forward. It was all I knew these past few weeks.

"As much as I hate to say this," Major O'Neil piped up, spitting a wad of chew to the side of our path, "the kid has a point. A valid point."

"We're not stopping." I was determined in my decision, and no one, not even the Major, was going to deter me from my course of action. I kept walking.

"Suzie," he spoke carefully, not at all like his usual gruffness, "take a look around you. There's barely a quarter of water left in our last canteen, the other ran out hours ago, and if we don't refill soon, we'll die of dehydration. Then, it won't mean shit if we kept walkin' or not."

Abruptly, I spun around, my low pig tails smacking my face in the process. Sweat trickled down my forehead until it collected in the bandanna I had wrapped around my head. The lack of motion cued my muscles to ache even more than they did while I was walking.

"Look," I snarled, pointing a finger in Charlie's face, "we still have a mission to complete, and until that time arrives when it has been accomplished, I'm going to keep on walking, and I don't give a _damn_ what you or anyone else, for that matter, has to say about it. Besides, we're almost there."

If he was at all confused by what 'there' meant, he did not let on. Instead, he grasped my finger and gently lowered it. His eye looked at me firmly. "I feel for you, Suzie, I do, but I'll be damned if I let you give in to self destructive tendencies or bring down this entire group, understand? We need a break," he bellowed, as if it settled the matter. "Even you."

I wrenched my finger out of his grasp and spat, "I'm _fine_. Now let me go—"

"Excuse me."

Both Charlie and I spun to see who our interrupter was. "WHAT?"

It was Maverick. He gulped. "Um . . ." he began nervously, "there appears to be some kind of cave-like dwelling up yonder, and I just thought that . . . well, perhaps it would make for a good spot to set up camp." With a glance at my angered facial expression, he added, "S-So we can rejuvenate ourselves for tomorrow, when we shall hike twice as long."

A simultaneous catching of breaths seemed to be heard. Everyone awaited my answer. Boldly, Charlie placed a hand on my shoulder. "Whaddya say?" he asked with one of his crooked smiles. And really, it was the thought of never getting to see one of those crooked smiles ever again that caused me to cave in (excuse the pun) and agree.

"But only," I assured them above the whoops and cheers, "for a little while."

**+SS+**

"Okay, okay, I've got one. Bruce Willis in _Die Hard_ or Bruce Willis in _Look Who's Talking_?"

"Wait a minute!" Maverick demanded, his voice annoyed. "By Bruce Willis in _Look Who's Talking_, you mean the voice-over work he did for Mikey?"

"Well . . . yeah," Jack admitted somewhat sheepishly.

Maverick scoffed, sounding highly affronted. "There is absolutely no contest! Bruce Willis in _Die Hard_, of course!"

Jack nodded. "Yeah. I would have to agree with you," he admitted. "Although, he was kind of awesome in _Unbreakable_."

Maverick could only nod in agreement.

I tried to tune the two of them out as I sat on an overturned tree stump. Admittedly, stopping had probably been a good idea since my muscles seemed to be far less strained, but I was not in the mood for nonsensical diversions.

Paul, Charlie, and Jesse were off searching the area for any glimpse of Dad's symbol, while the rest of us were just hanging out at the camp. Jack and Maverick were noncommittally involved in a game of selecting which picture they preferred the actor in. For the past half hour, they tried to get me involved, but I downright refused. Instead, I passed the time by silently staring down at my wedding band.

Idly, I spun it around my finger. I knew the inscription on the inside by heart. It read '_To Susannah: My wife, my friend, my heroine'_. I had always liked the 'heroine' part because of its double meaning: I was Vince's 'drug' (he was addicted to me), and I was also his hero, his savior. He had never had a great relationship with his father, and through me, he met my dad who turned out to be a perfect substitute.

"My turn," Maverick declared. He paused for a moment. "Alright . . . Bill Murray in _Caddyshack_ or Bill Murray in _Groundhog Day_?"

"Easy. Bill Murray in _Caddyshack_," Jack replied with a somewhat smug tone.

"_What_?" I could nearly hear Maverick's eyes pop out of his head. "Are you _blind_? _Groundhog Day _is by far the more superior movie."

"You've gotta be kidding me," Jack insisted, sounding equally as moved. "_Caddyshack_'s got not only Bill Murray, but Rodney Dangerfield _and _Chevy Chase."

Maverick laughed bitterly. "Oh, Chevy Chase! Well, you know what? Chevy Chase can kiss my pasty, white Irish—"

I used to love that inscription on my ring because it held me up to such high standards. I mean, heroine was a pretty big deal. But now, just the thought of the ring made me ill. Because even though Vince was captured, possibly even dead, I still kind of hated him for what he did to me. And some part of me—an extremely small part—did not even want to go search for him. God, I was a terrible person.

". . . don't know why, but I've always just liked _Gladiator_ better than _Cinderella Man_," Jack explained, almost philosophically. I heard a rustle of leaves as he, presumably, shuffled his feet around to a more comfortable position. "Russell Crowe's a good actor, but . . . I dunno. Just liked Maximus better."

Silence followed, so I assumed Maverick was nodding. "Okay, what about Harrison Ford in _The Fugitive_," he asked, possibly cleaning his glasses, "or Harrison Ford in _Air Force One_? Personally, I found both films highly unrealistic, but admittedly, I enjoyed _Air Force One_ im—"

"_The Fugitive_," Jack stated concretely. "No questions asked."

Maverick's voice raised an octave as his anger increased. "What do you mean 'no questions asked'? You are either blind or _severely_ impaired brain-wise because—"

"Suze," Jack called, as if I was the referee for their stupid game, "tell me I'm right. _The Fugitive_ is one of the greatest action-suspense movies of all time—besides _Die Hard_, obviously—and it was even nominated for Academy Awards—"

"Yeah," Maverick protested, "for _Tommy Lee Jones_! Not your precious Harriso—"

"Actually," I interrupted, turning around so I could better see my audience. Both of the boys (they could not actually be classified as _men_ in that moment) were standing up, nearly in each other's faces, "I always liked his work in _Blade Runner_ better; I preferred Bill Murray in _Ghost Busters_; Denzel Washington in _The Preacher's Wife_ and Tom Hanks in _Sleepless in Seattle_; and to be perfectly honest, I thought some of Bruce Willis' best work was done in _The Story of Us_! Now will the two of you just shut the hell up already?"

Both stared and looked at me almost sadly. But without another word, the two reclaimed their seats and sat in total silence, finally giving me a small taste of what I had been craving. It lasted for all of five minutes; however, before Maverick killed it.

"Suze, you cannot be serious," he assured me, struggling with both his desire not to be murdered and his need to object to my horrible movie selections. "_Sleepless in Seattle_ is merely a Ford Taurus in comparison to Hanks' work in _Saving Pr_—"

Before he could finish his thought, I glared at him harshly, hoping my meaning had come across clearly. It did. Maverick stayed quiet, and once again, sat down.

"It's true, you know," came a voice from behind me, in addition to the sound of three sets of feet. I didn't bother turning around. Paul owned the voice, and he directed it toward his brother and Maverick. "Suze always did have a soft spot for Bruce Willis." He shrugged. "It's kind of cute, considering she never had a chance in hell of hooking up with the guy, even now that he's bald."

I wanted in the worst way to tell Paul off, to even the score, but I knew the gesture would be futile. It was like he was coated in Teflon, and everything just slid right off of him. Besides, despite everything I did, I still wanted to find Vince, and even if he was somehow alive, I knew we did not have a lot of time left. Every second wasted was a second that could have been used to find him.

So instead, I asked, "Did you guys find anything useful?"

Charlie took a seat next to Jack and groaned as his weary frame hit the rotting log. "If by 'useful' you mean 'jack squat,' then, yeah," he explained bitterly, "we found a helluva cache!"

I sighed dejectedly, angrily flicking an ant off of my knee. Subconsciously, I prayed it wasn't poisonous. Then again, what in this jungle _wasn't _poisonous? "See, Charlie? This is exactly why I said we should keep moving," I reminded him, unable to keep the snarkiness in check. Lately, I found it far more difficult to suppress my anger, especially around the people I cared about. They were, unfortunately, easy targets. "Sitting around like this is useless."

At that moment, Paul sidled up in front of me and grazed my chin with his thumb and index finger in an almost intimate gesture. A mixed scent of sweat and aftershave hit my nose as he leaned in close. Why he was wearing aftershave, I will never know. "Well, in all fairness, Suze," he pointed out, "only _some_ of us have been sitting around, completely useless."

Bitterly, I slapped his hand away as he began laughing, clutching his stomach in hysteria. That was the final straw. "What the _hell_ is your problem, Slater?" I demanded, springing from my seated position enraged. I'd had just about enough of Paul Slater. I grabbed my canteen and began walking; anywhere was fine by me as long as it was nowhere near _him_.

"Oh, come on, Suze!" he tried to convince me. "I was only playing around."

"F—k you!" I called over my shoulder irately, simultaneously peering into the overgrown flora, wondering where I could possibly take this dramatic exit to. Didn't Maverick mention something about a cave?

As expected, it was Charlie who stood up for me. Not that I needed a protector or a bodyguard, but it was still nice to know at least someone was batting for Team Suze. "Leave the girl alone," he ordered with a cross glare in Paul's direction. He lifted his cap, ran a hand through his sweaty hair, and replaced the cap. As an afterthought, he spit a wad of amber colored saliva into a suspiciously poison oak-ish type cluster of plants. Ugh, remind me never to use snuff. "Suzie's not the one here who needs to be reminded about pulling her own weight."

Instead of nodding, stepping down, and acknowledging he had been told off by his authority figure, Paul threw his arms into the air in disbelief. "You're only saying that so she won't lash out at you! Everyone knows she's been an insufferable _bitch_ since those things captured Vince!"

Suddenly, my senses just stopped working, my surroundings blurred, and I could only focus on a ripening, intense desire to kill Paul Slater. My world was bathed in red, as far as the eye could see.

"_Why I oughtta_—!" With teeth bared and fists clenched, I launched myself at the detestable . . . _thing_.

Okay, so I snapped. But you try putting up with him incessantly for weeks on end. It's not as easy as it looks. Plus, he's sort of a huge dick. Figuratively, I mean!

Luckily, before I could inflict any damage, Jack caught me around the waist. He acted like nothing could have been easier even though I fought my hardest to get out of his grasp. "Whoa, there!" Jack warned, tightening his grasp to match my increasing desire to break free. "As much as I would like to clock my brother now and again, it would be incredibly unproductive to do so at this time."

"Oh," I assured him as I continued to writhe around in his arms, "I don't want to clock him. I want to _kill_ him!"

Once again, Jack thwarted my launch attempt, but this time, he threw me over his shoulders, sensing the whole 'holding' me thing wasn't working. As I hung there, helpless and mortified, my mind wandered back to a few weeks ago when Jack's brother had essentially performed the same in light of my stubbornness. Suddenly, my anger diffused itself. Now, I wasn't just angry with one Slater brother; I was angry with _both_.

"Put me down," I insisted, relenting all struggle to free myself. Hey, no one ever said I didn't catch on quickly. "Put me down, or I swear on my mother's _life_—"

"Whoa, whoa! Okay, Suze. I'll let you down before you say something you'll regret," Jack explained making certain to place me down stably.

I wanted to say something monumental, either in wit or depth, but I luckily had enough will power to stop myself. Instead, I brushed myself off in a dignified way and responded with the utmost equanimity, "Thank you." Then, I hiked up to that cave Maverick mentioned, and no one followed me.

**+SS+**

The thing about caves, besides their being prone to wetness and massive bats, is that they are terrifyingly dark. No one ever mentions the darkness thing. I mean, sure, I _knew_ caves were dark. I'd gone on the Crystal Caves fieldtrip just like every other young, Pennsylvanian kid within the vicinity. But that was basically child's play. The darkness in this cave was thick, almost tangible like the fog that used to roll into my bay window back in Carmel.

My flashlight must have fallen out of my bag when Jack tossed me over his shoulder because I couldn't find it when I searched for it. Also, I suspected the same fate had been deigned on my tampons, which wasn't mortifying at _all_. I mean, God forbid I ran into an emergency because, unfortunately, I would be up a creek without a paddle, or a tampon, more specifically. Allow me to state publicly now that if I had to resort to a leaf or something equally disturbing, I would just die.

Without a flashlight, exploring the cave was useless, so I took the time to lean against the outer wall of the cave and to take a much needed breather, which was anything but refreshing. No breeze blew by, the sun glared down on the ground floor, on me, and the heat was relentless. A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead, stinging my eye. Seriously, not even Texas was this scorching hot.

As I wiped my eyes, dabbing them with my bandana, a distinctly masculine voice said, "I thought I'd find you here."

Upon inspection, I discovered the voice belonged to Paul. Clumsily, I made a show of rising to my feet, and absentmindedly smoothing my hair. Without a single hint of pleasantness, I demanded, "What are you doing here?"

He sighed and placed his hands in his pockets. "Well, you know, I drew the short straw, and Jack wouldn't trade me, the _bastard_—"

I eschewed him with a reaction of emotional indifference and began to walk past the cave, father up the hill. The last thing I needed was Paul's award-winning wit. Furthermore, I still wanted to land a right hook on his smug face. Or, you know, some place further south.

"Hey, wait!"—He reached out and grabbed my arm. "Don't be like that. I was only joking."

I turned my head and gave him a telling glare. Soundlessly, I wrenched my arm from his grasp.

"Oh," he lamented with a small laugh, "I get it. You're giving me the silence treatment. Nice. _Very_ junior high school."

Still silent, I folded my arms over my chest, and raised a pointed eyebrow, as if asking 'So, what the hell do you want?'

Paul seemed to read my thoughts as he reached into his pack. When his hand reappeared, it was clutching my flashlight. "I thought you might need this," he explained, slapping it down on my palm. "Oh, and these."

He also happened to have my tampons. Mortifying was an understatement.

Blushing deeply, I snatched them away from him as quickly as possible and shoved them into my pack. For whatever reason, this seemed to amuse him exceedingly.

"Relax, Simon," he said, not exactly keen on hiding his exceptionally large grin, "it's not like I've never seen tampons before. It could have been a lot worse. For instance, it could have been your vibrator."

If possible, I blushed even further, which in retrospect, was probably what he wanted in the first place. I was not, however, dedicated enough to the silence treatment to allow him to get a rise out of me. "I don't own a vibrator, Paul," I informed him angrily. Then I added, "Vince is enough to satisfy and exceed my O-quota _every_ time."

"Touché," he admitted with a cock of his head to the side and an expression of slight admiration for my ballsy reply, and oh, my God, I just realized how many phallic terms I have been using! Sorry.

"Yeah," I continued, "not surprisingly Vince is really talented when it comes to sex. Like, _really_ talented. And you know how Texans like things big. They have big hats, big feet, and big pe—"

"Yeah, okay, I got it. Thanks," Paul said shortly. I had the immense satisfaction of seeing a flash of annoyance flitter across his face. His jaw clenched, too. "I think I liked you better when you weren't speaking."

"I can arrange that," I said happily before walking into the cave.

**+SS+**

"I understand you're not talking to me, Suze," Paul began, only ten minutes into our spelunking trip, "but were you serious when you said that Mel Gibson in _What Women Want_ was your favorite performance? Because I don't know if you have ever seen a little movie called _Braveheart_, but . . ."

I spun around and pointed my flashlight at his face. "Look," I explained tiredly, "I am not having this conversation again. I mean, what are we? Twelve?"

He threw his arms up in surrender. "Just wondering," he spoke with the utmost equanimity in his voice. I had only ever heard him truly yell a few times, all of them consequently while we were dating. Reasonable and mellow, that was Paul. "Besides, I already know your favorite movie is _Ghost_. Or, at least, it was. I mean, I know _Back to the Future_ was a close second, but, hey, what do I know? It's been so long since we've dated, let alone seen each other, and things change. People change."

As I trudged along, I truly attempted to ignore both the awkwardness of the situation and the obvious further meaning of that statement, but he was making both endeavors increasingly difficult. Because he was right. About the movie thing, I mean. Who even remembered that stuff? And, yeah, so I liked Patrick Swayze. Deal with it.

Paul laughed to himself, sweeping his flashlight over the cave's ceiling. "God, I think the last movie we went to see together was . . . _Working Girl_."

"Actually, it was _Beetlejuice_," I corrected, smiling to myself unwillingly at the memory. "I remember because afterward, we got into some kind of argument, and I was so angry, I threw my favorite pair of Christian Louboutin pumps at your head."

I looked over and watched as Paul cringed at the memory. Then, he grinned painfully. "Ah, yes," he recalled, "the infamous royal blue, Christian Louboutin, peep toe pumps."

I let out a short laugh. "Wow, you remember the exact pair. Isn't that a bit . . . oh, I don't know, creepy and/or _gay_?"

Instead of acting offended by the crack at his masculinity, Paul ignored the comment entirely. "Well, Suze, I'm going to let you in on a little secret," he explained dryly. "When a pair of shoes becomes that intimately acquainted with your face, you tend to remember their every detail. And you also tend to remember the large welt slash bruise that accompanied it. But mostly, you'll remember the intense mortification associated with explaining to everyone who asked that the bruise could be attributed to your girlfriend." He paused a moment to let his words sink in. "Do you know one of my work buddies was actually convinced I should put a restraining order on you?"

I laughed, despite myself, and involuntarily shuddered. The farther we walked into the cave, the colder it got. I wrapped my arms around myself in an attempt to stay warm, and Paul, noticing this, offered me his shirt, to which I politely declined. Mostly because it was short sleeved, partly because it wasn't even like he was wearing anything under it.

"If it's any consolation," I apologized maturely, "I'm sorry. Looking back on it, I realize my reaction was entirely inappropriate and incredibly immature."

Paul paused in his movement and turned toward me, shining his flashlight at my face. Blindly, I batted at his hand to lower it, but he held it out of my reach. "Amazing. It only took about a decade for an apology to exit those sweet lips of yours," he joked with a half grin. As an added bonus, he ruffled my hair in a massively annoying way, and I responded with a territorial growl of disgust. "I will give you points for apologizing in the first place, though, so thank you."

I smiled back. We continued walking. "Well, in my defense—" I argued, raking my fingers through my hair in the hopes of restoring it to, if not perfection, then at least something resembling presentable. Although, I had to admit that the combination of humidity and sweat was doing wonders for my hair. Normally, my hair needed loads of product and either a blow dryer or a straightener. But out here, I had that awesome beach hair without even trying. You know, when your hair is nice and thick and wavy with that matte like texture. It was definitely a nice change having that extra half hour to myself each morning. "—that fight occurred during our break up period, so I had a lot of pent up anger searching for _some _kind of outlet."

For a moment, it seemed as if Paul wanted to protest something, but in the end, he decided to keep it to himself. "Fair enough," he admitted, tilting his head to the side in acknowledgement. "Apology accepted. But promise me one thing?"

My heart stopped in my throat. "What's that?"

"When we get back to the States," he began, haphazardly sweeping his flashlight's beam of light back and forth across our path, "let me take you to a _decent_ movie." He laughed. "I'd hate for the last thing we ever saw together to be _Beetlejuice_."

I could physically feel relief spread throughout my entire body. "Okay," I agreed, unable to keep the grin out of my voice. I couldn't help it. This was the first time in as long as I could remember that Paul and I were having a civilized, friendly conversation. "You got yourself a deal, Slater. Only, you're buying the popcorn."

"Fine with me," he agreed, "but you have to agree to leave any and all Christian Louboutin pumps at home. A-And that includes any other shoe you might possess with a heel."

I laughed. "Deal. Keds it is."

And that was that.

The rest of the time passed by relatively uneventfully. Surroundings of darkness, wetness, and dirt blurred until it felt like we were walking on one of those treadmills where the same scene kept rolling behind us, like they do for certain scenes in movies or music videos. The only reason I could be certain that we were actually moving and not on a music video set was the general lack of anything glamorous. At least on the set of a Fergie video, they have Kraft food services and they keep guys off to the side just so they can lay their coats down in the event that she has to cross a puddle of mud or something.

I'm assuming so, anyway, since I've never been to one before. But, come on. Like they don't roll out the works for the Duchess?

Also, I was pretty sure that the clean up crew would be incredibly efficient, making absolutely sure that none of the glitter and confetti from the shoot, or crumbs from the lunch break were left on the floor. Basically unlike whatever crew was in charge of keeping this place clean. And, yes, I knew that caves did not have cleaning crews, but just—just give me the simile, okay?

As we continued walking, the floor crackled beneath our weight like the sound of crunched cookie crumbs or potato chips. At first the sound didn't bother me, but the longer it continued, the more concerned I became. It could have been gravel, I supposed, but the thing about gravel is that it sounds . . . _gravelly_. Fortunately, I could barely see a few beams of sunlight up ahead which I knew would solve the mystery soon enough. Still, I was curious.

I asked Paul, choosing my steps more carefully now, "What the heck is on the ground?"

"I don't know," he replied honestly, "but we are about to find out."

After a wicked grin, Paul pulled his flashlight from the belt loop it hung from and flicked the switch. Within the circumference of the light, the floor appeared to be moving in glossy, black undulating waves. Upon further inspection, however, we discovered the floor wasn't moving at all. It was whatever was on top of the floor that continued to move. In other words, it, or rather they, were bugs. More specifically, foot long, inch thick millipede wannabes.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," I grumbled faintly.

With all the will power in the world, I struggled to keep the bile back. It wasn't that I hated insects . . . well, okay, it _was_. But these things were beyond the human realm of disgusting. They literally deserved their own classification—somewhere between kingdom and order—of detestability. I focused my gaze on the ceiling, instead, trying to ignore the sudden induced nausea.

"Whoa, Suze, you have to see these things," he insisted, either ignoring my declaration or not hearing it. From his crouched position, he continued to examine the bugs more closely. "In all my years of research . . . well, needless to say I believe you and I are the unexpected co-owners of a brand new species. Oh-ho! How do you feel about rejecting me freshman year now, _Princeton_?"

I shivered. Not because of Paul's rousing yet poignant (as if) wave of nostalgia, but because of the newly discovered creatures. Every other time we came across a new organism, danger followed, and the inevitability of that ratio gave me the heebie-jeebies.

"Come on, Paul, back away from those things. I've got a bad feeling about this." My voice shook even though I tried to convince it otherwise, and my hands, besides being freezing, began sweating, as if on cue.

"I'll be careful, _Mom_," Paul drawled, continuing to poke and prod the creatures on the cave floor in front of him. "Geez, you need to relax, chill out. Have you ever considered drugs? Because I know a guy . . ."

I never found out his guy's name because something flew down from the cave's ceiling and interrupted Paul's speech. With its talons stretched wide and a third head erupting from the scales of its back, a substance similar to mucous oozing from its crown, the creature let loose an echoing screech right before attempting to attack Paul's face. I use the word 'attempted' because even though it moved exceptionally fast, I moved faster.

All within a fraction of a second, I pulled out my sidearm just as the creature made its move and pulled the trigger. The impact of the bullet caused the creature to explode, and its innards splashed in every which way, most of it landing on Paul's face. In comparison to a missing nose or eyeball, he made out for the best.

"Are you okay?" I asked, cringing at the standard question. The word 'okay' seemed so foreign anymore. Nothing in this hellhole was '_okay_.'

Paul remained silently immobile, the only sound being the last remaining echo of the gun shot. When he spoke, his voice quavered slightly. "Yeah, I just . . . I'm fine, but that bullet came closer to my face than I'm normally comfortable with."

I couldn't help the slight annoyance that involuntarily bubbled to the surface, dictating my next choice of words. To keep my hands busy, I placed my sidearm in the back waistband of my shorts. "Well, _sorry_ the rescue couldn't be grade A, but there was a restricted timetable and—"

"Whoa, Suze—" He stopped me and placed a clean hand on my shoulder. His touch caused a peculiar reaction on my skin, a strange mixture of something like electric pin pricks and déjà vu. "—that wasn't a complaint, just a reaction." He smiled down at me warmly. "What I _meant_ to say was thank you. You saved my ass."

I shrugged away from under his grasp in a blatant attempt to stop being touched. His hand felt so foreign and out of place on my skin that it made my yearning for a familiar touch, for Vince, that much stronger. I pushed these thoughts to the back of my mind before replying, "Well, you have a funny way of showing it, offering me drugs like I'm some sort of common junkie. That's highly offensive, Paul, by the way."

"Relax," he said, still smiling, "it was just a joke. I'm a member of the left wing, educational elite. I wouldn't even know where to begin to tell you where you could find illegal substances. But if it means so much to you, I'm sorry."

I nodded, acknowledging his apology. "Apology accepted," I stated, shining my flashlight on the cave's ceiling, wary of another airborne attack, "but before we do anything else, you have _got _to wipe that gunk off your face. It looks like you had a violent run in with a tapioca pudding truck."

Paul laughed, ultimately deciding I was right. He unhooked his canteen from one of the belt loops on his shorts and poured a small amount of water on his face, cleaning most of the guts off his face. Then, he lifted the bottom of his shirt and wiped off whatever remained.

I can't defend accidentally staring at the small stretch of stomach that became visible when he lifted his shirt because there was literally no appropriate or logical argument to defend my actions. But I stared anyway. I'd forgotten how nice Paul's stomach actually looked. Seriously, when did a well respected, college professor find time to work out so much? At my job I barely found time for a yogurt run, let alone working out.

All joking aside, though, his well muscled abdomen was the type of thing sculptors and tween girls would drool over, and while I was neither, I couldn't deny the aesthetic value of his abs. An evenly distributed amount of dark chest hair covered his rippling stomach muscles, and a thin trail, starting at his navel, disappeared beneath the waistband of his black Calvin Klein boxer briefs (most likely) which were just visible above his shorts. In addition, he had those hip indents that, while odd, were also incredibly sexy.

Did I say 'sexy?' Because I meant . . .

Aw, nerds . . .

Within a few seconds, I felt my face heat up, and only then did I realize I was staring. Quickly, I turned my gaze toward the cave floor, thanking my lucky stars that I chose to wear my Timberlands instead of some other impractical shoe. At least now when I heard the crunch of unidentified creatures under my soles, I could find comfort in the fact that my feet would in no way come in contact with those gross things. That thought, if nothing else, served as the perfect distraction from the answer to 'Why were you checking out Paul Slater?' and the sudden annoying itch at the part of my back I couldn't reach from the top or bottom with either of my arms. Despite the odds, I attempted to relieve the itch.

"Did I get everything?"

I examined his face as quickly as I could, while also trying to be thorough. Not surprisingly, he managed to clean his face with the utmost perfection. The only thing out of place and not perfect was a lock of hair that fell in his eyes haphazardly. I resisted brushing it out of his face.

"Nope," I shook my head, attempting to scratch at my back again, "you're clean as a whistle."

The wry, half smile returned to Paul's face again. "Thanks, Suze," he said appreciatively. He kneeled down and began shining his flashlight over the ground floor. "Just give me a minute to collect a sample or two, and then we can get out of here. To be perfectly honest, this place creeps the hell outta me."

An involuntary shudder filtrated down through my spine. The thought of remaining in that place for any extra amount of time made my blood run cold and my palms sweat. The small hairs on the back of my neck and my arms stood on end, like soldiers at attention, and every square inch of my skin strained as goose bumps erupted by the thousands. Yet, my back continued to itch beyond belief, even through all of that, and I _still _couldn't reach the spot.

"Paul, d'you think you could—" I continued straining to reach the center of my back, failing, ultimately. The sound of the hissing insects beneath our feet continued to assault my ears. "—could you scratch my back, please? It's killing me, and I can't seem to reach it on my own."

Paul stood up, brushing his knees off. Once finished, he closed the lid on his specimen jar and placed it in his back pack. Then, he set the bag down, supporting it against the wall of the cave. "Sure, he finally agreed, clicking his flashlight back on. "Tell me where."

"It's, like, right at the center of my back," I obliged, depicting the precise area as best I could. There was a reason I never became a descriptive novelist. Besides, you know, having no interest in the process of writing a book.

"Alright, alright, just hold still," he warned, clamping a firm hand on my shoulder. "So, you said that—WHOA!"

"What?" I asked, sounding slightly concerned. I craned my neck to try to get a look at Paul.

With a firm hand—_really_ firm, actually—he pushed my face forward, so I couldn't see behind me. Did I mention it hurt? Because, _oww_! "No, Suze, don't look back here," Paul warned, sounding desperate and on edge. A slight tinge of fear seemed to coat his voice, which in turn caused my paranoia to go into overdrive. I mean, what the heck was wrong?

"Oh, my God, what's wrong?" I demanded, panic etched throughout my tone. "What do you see?"

Paul shook his head, or at least, I supposed he did based on the amount of silence before his answer. "No, nothing. Nothing's wrong. Just . . . just hold still."

And I would have believed him if it weren't for the telling tremble in his voice. "Slater, I _swear_, if you don't give me a straight answer, I will—AHHHHHH!"

Words could not describe the utter revulsion I felt as I stared at the heinous millipede wannabe crawling down my shoulder. For someone who remained relatively calm in the face of danger, I didn't handle insects well at all. _Ewww_!

"_Ewww_, Paul, get it off—get it off—get it off—_get it off_!" I squealed in what can objectively be called an embarrassingly feminine fashion. In my defense, though, I had seen Charlie's eye; I knew what these creatures were capable of.

"Suze, I can't," he said as authoritatively as he could, his hand still grasping my shoulder firmly. "There are—there are just too many of them; I can't . . ."

"Wait a minute—" I demanded frightfully. "—_too many of them_? As in '_plural_?'"

All of a sudden, it hit me that the reason my back itched had nothing to do with skin irritation, and everything to do with millions of bug legs scampering across the flesh on my back. I couldn't take it anymore; without much thought, I yanked my tank top off and threw it on the ground. The creepy crawlies within seconds devoured it.

"God, they just don't quit, do they?" Paul rhetorically demanded, shooting at whatever moved. Not until the creatures crawled into a beam of light poking through the cave's ceiling did they finally disappear. And by 'disappear,' I meant when the sun hit the creatures, their skin sizzled and popped right before they erupted into flames. The aftermath involved a small pile of ash.

"Well, that certainly sheds some light on our situation," Paul declared with an audible smirk regarding his ability to use a pun while also being informative. But in all honesty, I wasn't really paying attention to him. I was too concerned about possible bug guts on my bare skin.

"Oh, God, Paul! It's like . . . I can still feel them crawling on my skin!" I cried out, avidly trying to clear my skin of any remaining creatures.

To an outsider, it might have appeared as though I was freaking out, and in all honesty, I probably was. But, again, the image of Charlie's bludgeoned eye socket scarred my brain permanently. Over the years, I became quite fond of my eyes. Not only for seeing purposes, obviously, but also because I could wear colors like emerald and olive and not have to worry about heavy eye makeup because my eyes just popped naturally. For someone like me who had limited time and a demanding job, that's a huge deal.

"Please, please, help me out," I begged, well, more like pathetically whimpered. In retrospect, it was kind of embarrassing.

But luckily for me, Paul rolled his eyes only minimally, and honored my request by ordering me to spin around as he doused me in the artificial light from his flashlight. After a few moments, he declared, "You're all clear, Suze, except for what appears to be a freckle just above the dimples in the small of your back. Huh," he said more to himself than me as he clicked his light off, so the only illumination available came from the various large holes in the cave ceiling, "guess I just never noticed it before."

Right on cue, I began to blush, annoyed that he could still affect me with such an innocent declaration. Although, knowing him as I did, I knew it contained some percentage of hidden meaning, and that just wasn't fair at all. Good thing my mood was leaning toward a confrontational one today. "That's not fair," I voiced out loud, stomping closer to where Paul stood.

He turned his attention from the floor to my face, his gaze not wavering even slightly. "What's not fair?" he wanted to know, his expression serious.

Something about the intensity of his stare had me feeling incredibly uncomfortable. So much so that I lost all confrontational nerve instantly. "I—never mind," I finished lamely.

There was an odd, uncomfortable silence.

"So," I continued, desperate for any kind of not silence, "um . . . what's up with those creepy crawly things bursting into flame? Weird, right?"

Paul scoffed, clearly in as much disbelief as I was. He replaced his flashlight in the back pocket of his cargo shorts, returned his attention toward the cave's floor again, and replied, "Well, based on what we already know, I would have to take an educated guess, and theorize that it had something to do with a certain chemical secretion on these creatures' skin that reacts negatively when combined with sunlight. And that's if it can even be explained at all. But I'm not that stupid, sweetheart. I know a diversion when I hear one. So let's hear it—" Paul once again fixed me with his intense gaze. "—what's not fair?"

I blame honesty entirely for the events that commenced soon after. This is why, normally, I'm a borderline, compulsive liar.

"This!" I blurted without much thought. If I had let thought actually take over, I would not have found myself in this situation. Actually expressing what was really bugging me, I mean. "You!"

"_Me_?" Paul wondered incredulously, his eyebrows rose in genuine shock. "What did I—?"

"'_Sweetheart?_'" I reminded him, steadily getting more irritated the more I dwelled on what it was precisely Paul was doing. "A _freckle_ on my back? Paul, you keep spilling these embarrassingly intimate details regarding our relationship at 'convenient' times in front of my friends, in front of your _brother_, in front of V—!"

"—Well, at least one of us remembers we _had_ a relationship," Paul interrupted sounding beyond annoyed at actually being blamed for something. I was surprised to see that he had taken my bait, had been provoked into a response. Nice to know that he was capable of actual emoting, not the fake, sarcastic kind. "I mean—" He ran a hand through his hair. "—God, Suze! You're always on that damn high horse of yours, acting as if we don't have a past, like we never even dated. Like I'm just some unfortunate blip on your radar that you would just _love_ to get rid of."

"I'm married!" I protested, unable to comprehend such a ridiculous argument on his behalf. So part of that was true, but, hello, that's what married people do. They conveniently 'forget' past relationships that failed and move onto their new one. Was I the only one who understood that?

Paul snorted in indignation, and followed it with a malicious laugh. His icy blues were colder than I had ever seen them. "Yeah, not very happily, from what I've seen."

"How dare you! You don't even _know_ me anymore. What gives you the right to comment on my marriage?" I demanded, hands on my hips in one of the lamest gestures in the book. I like to think my justified anger at Paul blinded me from proper judgment.

Paul just shrugged, a nasty grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Well, I know Vince, and I've had my own fair share of failing relationships," he explained, "so trust me when I say I'm sort of an expert in this area. Plus, I've got eyes. Just ask any of the other guys back at camp. They'll back me up on this one."

I had to fight the tears that threatened to spill from my tear ducts at any cost. Hateful spite and rage seemed to do the trick. "Oh, so what? You want to swoop in and play the hero? Save _poor_ _little Suzie _from the relationship that doesn't involve _you_, is that it? Because _obviously_ the problem with my marriage is that it in no way revolves around YOU!"

Paul's eyes grew darker, even in the relative darkness of the cave, though we had somehow shifted toward an area where a lot of light from the ceiling was poking through, so it wasn't as dark, but still. He said in an almost menacing way, "Don't tell me what I want to do."

I threw my hands into the air in surrender, shaking my head, and laughing, though the laughter involved no mirth whatsoever. "God, Paul, that is so like you!" I cried bitterly. The taste of his name on my lips was like bile. "You're sick! You're in love with the ideal of this 'relationship' you seem to think we shared. But in case you need reminding, we broke up. _Sixteen _years ago!"

For a moment, it seemed as if Paul didn't have a comeback, and for once, it was nice to have finally had the last say, to have come out on top. But my victory was short lived when he finally shot back, "If my memory serves me correctly, there was no '_we_,' Simon. You broke up with _me_. It wasn't a mutual decision."

"Well!" I exploded, unsure of what combination of words should follow that particular interjection. Again, that thought thing? Yeah, it wasn't coming in too clearly at that particular moment. Maybe my brain didn't pick up signals too well in the cave. "It wasn't like you stopped me or anything. If it really meant that much to you, you could have done something."

"Oh, yeah?" Paul asked incredulously, taking one step closer. The crunch underneath his large boot was resolute, and in that moment, his hands looked large enough that he could strangle me just the flick of his wrist. "And what could I have done exactly? Huh? Again, Suze, if you'll recall, I was willing to make things work. You were just too damn stubborn to realize that things didn't have to end with a breakup. But no! It's always got to be dramatic gestures and sweeping exits with you, Suze. I never had any say in it."

So I was a drama queen, was that it? I was too enraged to see any truth in what he said, so I decided to take the conversation in a different direction. "Oh, come on, Paul! I was _twenty_! What exactly were you getting out of a relationship with someone six years your junior? I was too young to think straight, let alone know what I truly wanted for my life, from our relationship. Can you blame me? I mean, honestly?"

Instead of acknowledging his part in any of this, Paul asked in a mysteriously calm manner, "So you're saying our relationship was a mistake?"

I sighed, frustrated that he couldn't understand what I was trying to get across, and frustrated that I couldn't word it better. Once again, I threw my arms up in defeat. "No, of course not, it's just . . ." How could I word this correctly? ". . . It's just, I knew I wanted more than sex and physical attraction. I wanted trust. I wanted companionship."

Paul seemed even more confused. He quirked an eyebrow to drive the point home. "So you're saying you didn't trust me?"

"No . . . yes, I . . . I don't know, Paul! It was a long time ago—"

"Well, when you make up your f—king mind, let me know, Simon!" Paul shouted, his voice echoing throughout the cave. A vein in his forehead had even managed start throbbing, and his voice carried what appeared to be a hint of hurt, but it was so small, I may have imagined it. "Because when you do, it'll be cause for a national f—king holiday!"

I couldn't help it. I was hurt. That was entirely unnecessary, and the both of us knew it. Only, Paul was too much of a jackass to apologize for it because his male pride had been hurt. Only, I wasn't entirely sure how it had been hurt in the first place. But it didn't matter. Now, I was _furious_. "You know what, Slater? I don't need this!" I bellowed, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "You wanna yell and scream, fine! But don't use me as your punching bag."

"Oh! Right," Paul laughed, shaking his head in disbelief, "I forgot. That's so like _you_. Whenever we truly get to the heart of an issue, you close off, and pretend like it doesn't exist; while the rest of us have to deal with the things you haven't settled, like your daddy issues, your marriage issues, your self-esteem issues—"

Now a few tears did spill. "_Stop it_," I hissed, gritting my teeth so I could hide any kind of hurt I might have been feeling. That's the last thing I needed: Paul having more ammo he could use against me. He was fighting dirty now.

He didn't even consider acknowledging my request. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest, and declared, "You want to know the truth, Suze? The truth is that I never fully got over you." He threw his arms into the air and plastered a fake, cheesy smile on his face. "_Ta-da_! There's some f—kin' honesty for ya!"

I lost all ability to speak. My mouth had gone dry, and I couldn't even think of a coherent sentence, let alone a witty comeback. A cold sweat broke out all over my body. Droplets slithered down my back. Why was he telling me this _now_ when I was confused and vulnerable? As a matter of fact, why was he telling me this _ever_? "Paul, I—"

He shook his head furiously. "Nuh-uh, I'm not done yet. You kept prodding Pandora's Box, and now that it's opened, you have to suffer the consequences. Cause and effect, babe. Now, the truth," he continued, pacing back and forth as he gathered his words and thoughts carefully, "is that I'm forty-two years old! _Forty-two_! I should be _married_, have a few kids, or at least a few satisfying, non-committal relationships periodically through a stint of proclaimed bachelorhood, but you know what? I have _none_ of that because the truth is that I am still hung up on a fourteen month relationship I had _sixteen years ago_. How's that? Am I winning in the 'pathetic chump' category? Or at the very least, am I feeding _your_ ego, so you feel like less of a freak in comparison? Because that's what it boils down to, right? As long as you're not more of a freak than Slater—" He shrugged. "—life is pretty damn good."

"That's not fair," I said darkly, utilizing all of my inner strength to calm the roaring beast inside that wanted to tear Paul into shreds. The worst part was that my body began to shiver, and it had nothing to do with the temperature in the cave—which, granted, was relatively cool—and everything to do with the words coming out of his mouth. I wanted him to stop talking. No, I _needed_ him to stop talking. He could _not_ dump his inability to move on me. Hence, my prior statement.

"No, you know what's '_not fair_,' Suze?" Paul demanded, his finger pointed threateningly in my face. I could almost see a hint of hurt, masked behind his blindingly white anger, etched in his facial features. "I can't get you out of my head." He pounded his head on either side with both of his hands for emphasis. "Your memory is like a damned _parasite_, sucking out any inkling of sanity that might have remained in my skull. I haven't been able to have any meaningful relationships with women because I'm constantly comparing them to you. Their various body parts—"

I suddenly became very aware that I was standing there in my shorts and bra only, and that Paul's eyes had managed to drift a little lower than my face. I couldn't tell if he was consciously staring, but his leering made me feel incredibly uncomfortable. In what I considered to be a subtle gesture, I crossed my arms over my chest, hoping they covered everything.

"—how they kiss, how they talk, how they hold a freakin' _fork_, et cetera," he continued, clearly disturbed by his own behavior and honesty. "I can't sleep at night because I know I only ever dream of one thing. You and what we could have had. I try to push it out of my head because, believe me, I took a couple psychology classes in college; I know how disturbed this makes me. I know I'm borderline crazy. But the _craziest _part of this whole venture is that despite all of this, I'd rather deal with the psychosis because," he admitted, "the idea of never seeing you again hurts more than words can express. More than I can bear." He laughed maniacally. "You know why I bought those frames for my glasses? Huh? It's not because I particularly liked them—they're just wire frames, anyway, nothing special—but because I felt, stupidly, like I might feel closer to you." He snorted. "It didn't work, by the way. Big surprise, there."

My mouth hung open, I was certain of it, but with all my will power, I couldn't close it. I had never heard Paul so honest, and in all frankness, it scared me a bit. Scared me that his feelings were that strong. Scared me that those feelings were about _me_.

"You know what's really pathetic though?" he asked in a way that almost sounded rhetorical. He stopped his pacing for a moment to look me directly in the eyes. I couldn't read his expression. "The truth is that I'm pretty sure I love you." He laughed in an almost biting manner before redirecting his gaze back at me. I had never seen his eyes look more lucid. "I know, right? Can you believe that? Me, who's never loved another woman before in my entire life, not even his own _mother_. But with you—" He reached out a hand, but, almost as if thinking better of it, let it drop lamely back at his side "—it's different. But then, you had to go and marry Vince because, honestly, I'm convinced your purpose in this life is to knock me down a few notches at every chance you can. I mean, come on. My best _friend_? And what _kills_ me is that sometimes I can't even look him in the eyes because the pain of knowing he can touch you in the most intimate of places, he can breathe you in and I can't is tortuous. _Vince_ _Luxmoore_! The guy I played little league with I can't even stand because my jealousy is out of control."

My heart, in that moment, began thudding in its place. Blood rushed to my head, making me woozy, and my knees felt weak, like I was going to pass out. And instead of coherent thoughts, all that kept playing in my head were his words just moments ago, '. . . _I'm pretty sure I love you_ . . .' The only thing I could think to do was ask in a voice that wasn't supposed to be as shaky as it sounded, "Paul . . . what do you want me to even _say _to that?"

He ran a trembling hand through his hair, and sighed as if a huge weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. "I don't know! Just . . . Tell me I'm not the only one suffering here," he pleaded, "tell me Maverick was wrong, and that I _do_ have a shot with you. Tell me I'm not _crazy_, at the very least."

I think it's worth mentioning that at this point, I was more than a little frightened at the intensity of both Paul's eyes and his honesty. My voice continued to shake as I said, "You're not crazy. You're a freaking _lunatic_!"

Obviously, this was not the response Paul was going for, if the sudden frown on his face was any indication. "Wrong answer, Suze," he said angrily before pushing me back into the wall of the cave. His pelvis crushed my lower half, cutting off any kind of movement. The good news was that he removed his hands from my shoulders. The bad news was that he rested one of his hands on my hip; the other was planted on the cave wall beside my head. And, oh, yeah, the wall was digging into my back. Rather painfully, I might add.

"Paul, what the—_hell _are you doing? Get off of me," I demanded, not finding the situation particularly amusing.

Paul shook his head, rubbing the skin right above my hip bone with the pad of his thumb. My breathing hitched. _Damn it_! "Not until you admit that you're still not entirely over me, that I have no effect on you," he insisted, caressing the side of my neck with the back of his hand. "It takes two to tango, Simon."

"I—" I choked on my words when his hand came in contact with my neck. It just felt so _nice_. . . No. I was in control. "Paul, I'm married, and if you don't get off of me—"

"You'll what?" he asked with a smirk. He seemed to find the idea of my unspoken threat terribly amusing. "Your threat is an empty one, Suze; I can visibly see the effect I seem to have on you. Your face is flushed, your breathing's erratic, your pulse is fluttering, and I think it's . . . _hard_ to miss the evident effect you have on me. Just say the word, and all _this_ can be yours again," he begged, his eyes frantically searching my own for the answer he so desperately wanted to hear. He traced a finger slowly from the base of my neck to the end of my sternum, where it lingered.

"Paul, _please_," I implored him quietly, my voice quivering slightly. My eyes were bright with unshed tears, "I'm vulnerable . . ."

"I know," he assured me, as he leaned his head in closer, his lips barely brushing my own, "that's how I know you'll respond when I kiss you, and that makes me hard as hell just thinking about it—"

I tried to protest. I would like the records to show that I most definitely _tried_ to protest. As a matter of fact, there was going to be a _lot_ of protesting. It was going to be a feast of protesting, a-a cornucopia of protests. But unfortunately all of my protesting was cut off when Paul pressed his lips to mine and kissed me. Or maybe 'kissed' is too polite a description to use in regards to what he did. I believe 'inhaled/devoured' is far more accurate for what Paul did to my lips. Not that it was entirely unpleasant.

Because that's the thing. It wasn't. Unpleasant, I mean. In fact, it was the opposite of that. And when faced with the opposite of unpleasant actions, I kind of respond. In a major way.

Not right away, of course. There was, I believe, a five second hesitation, but who knows? I'm certain the heat of the moment impaired my judgment, so it was probably much, _much_ longer.

. . . Oh, who am I kidding? Yes, Paul Slater kissed me . . . yes, I responded, and, _yes_, I was fully aware I had a husband who had been kidnapped—possibly dead—two weeks ago . . . I think. In all honesty, it was a little difficult to think coherently with Paul kissing me so thoroughly.

Suddenly I was transported back sixteen years ago, when Paul and I had done this routine the first time. Memories I had previously forgotten, like that time he and I made-out in an empty classroom in Vanderbilt Hall, or when I had the flu that same year, and he drove three hours just to bring me soup, came rushing back to me. He didn't even get sex out of the deal on that trip. "No way am I doing it with what looks like the Swamp Thing," was how he explained it, and I didn't blame him.

Kissing Paul now was really no different than it had been sixteen years ago. Except, and I hated to admit it, it was better. His lips trembled slightly as they touched mine, and his hands fumbled a bit, almost as if he didn't know what to do now that he had me where he wanted me. But the moment I responded seemed to encourage him a great deal, and he stopped trembling all together. He took the opportunity to attack my mouth with even greater fervor, and when I threw an arm around his neck—heat of the moment, guys!—he brushed his tongue against my lips, wordlessly asking for admittance. When I allowed it, he tightened the grasp he had on my hip, almost as if he was afraid he would lose me again.

His body felt so good pressed up against mine, and maybe it was the crazy talking or the jungle fever, but for just a moment I felt nostalgic, truly missing the time Paul and I shared together. He was right. My marriage was in shambles, and with Vince gone, it wasn't like I could have done anything to make things better. Certainly, maybe adultery really wasn't the best way of handling things, but as I mentioned before, I was lonely. And vulnerable. So sue me if I wanted to feel wanted, hell, maybe even accepted.

By this time, Paul had begun kissing my neck, leaving a familiar trail of fire and ice along my skin. An embarrassing whimper escaped from my throat as I squirmed in ecstasy, but this only served to excite Paul even more.

"Don't ever leave me again, Suze," he breathed out in between simultaneously sucking and nibbling on my earlobe. No one ever tells you how awesome ear kissing is. "I'm not strong enough to deal."

"Mm'kay," I slurred, trying to sound at least somewhat coherent while he continued doing his thing.

Paul interrupted by once again covering my mouth with his. He tasted like Big Red—a favorite of his—and a hint of coffee from that morning. He smelled good, too. Like a mixture of sweat and pine. And his hands were rough against the sensitive skin of my breasts, my hips, my stomach, but that only managed to make the reaction that much more intense. Like sticking your finger into an electrical socket.

And even though my mind was blissfully numb what with all the kissing, one tiny thought kept fighting its way to the front of my brain. Well, it was more like another memory rather than a thought. Only, this one had nothing to do with Paul. Instead, it actually had to do with Sunday school. Ironic, right?

I thought back to when I was younger, and the teacher started talking about King David, a man after God's own heart, and how he screwed up royally with Uriah's wife, Bathsheba. His adultery caused him a world of hurt, including murdering Bathsheba's husband in order to sleep with her in the first place, and later, a son dying in childbirth. And while I wasn't all that religious, I knew adultery was a bad thing. At least, I used to think so. It was hard to keep track of my stance when Paul's lips clearly had no intention to leave my skin. Ever.

Finally, I wrenched my lips away from his, and demanded breathily, "Get off of me."

Paul's hair was sticking up at odd angles thanks to my hands running through it, and his eyes looked bleary, like he was drunk or high. Off of _me_, Susannah Simon! Admittedly, the fact that Paul was so clearly turned on had me turned on, and it took all I had in me to restrain myself from attacking him again.

"Nice try, Simon. Next time try it with a little more conviction, and try not to sound so aroused," Paul suggested with a tiny smirk before going back for the kill.

I turned my head to the side in the hopes that this would deter him, but he just started kissing my neck instead. And that would have gone fine, in fact I was even enjoying it, but then he slid one of his hands into the waistband of my shorts. And even though I was barely coherent due to the immense pleasure I was suffering from, that one thought, about the adultery, kept coming in loud and clear. This was _wrong_.

And not in the good way.

I was married, and it was time I started acting like it.

I tried to squirm out of Paul's grasp, but between his pelvis crushing me and his hand in my shorts, I couldn't do it. So I did what any other self-respecting woman in the circumstances would do.

"I said _get off_!"

I punched him in the face.

Paul stumbled backward, clutching his nose and uttering a slew of curses before finally demanding, "OW, what the _hell _was that for, Simon?"

There were a lot of answers to that question. A lot. But I couldn't bring myself to be witty, or even blame Paul when I _so _should have known better. Because in all honesty, I was mad with myself. Not Paul.

Okay, well, partly Paul, but that's not the point.

So I tried being honest. "I'm _so_ sorry, Paul. I can't do this," I admitted, trying very hard to keep any tears from actually falling.

Ignoring any of his protests, I ran to the exit of the cave as fast as I possibly could, and when I finally reached it, I booked it back to the campsite, not once looking back behind me.

* * *

**July, Present Day**

**South America**

**A Cave in the Amazon**

Paul stood there, bewildered, staring down at his hands in disbelief, not quite willing or able to believe that just moments before, the woman of his dreams had willingly participated in what he considered to be one of the top ten make-out sessions of his entire life. Hell, they'd basically reached third base.

But then she just left.

And he let her.

The thought made his head reel, and his balls ache. Though the latter was mostly related to the make-out session in and of itself, not the letting-Suze-leave thing. She had been _right_ in his grasp, and then she just _left_. First it was a whirlwind of lips and flesh, and then it was nothing. First it was arousal and desire, and then it was nada. First it was declaration—single—of love, and then it was good-bye. When had his life become so damn confusing and depressing at the same time? And why did his maturity and conscience have to kick in at all? Because letting her go? That was a blatant act of maturity, when clearly what he wanted and what he actually did were two _very_ different things.

He sighed, shaking his head in disbelief, and making a grab for his shirt which had been tossed haphazardly to the side in a fit of passion. Suze always was good at getting him out of a shirt faster than he ever could. Shaking the image, and subsequent thought trail, out of his head, he put his shirt back on, not before checking for any unidentifiable creatures. Just as he managed to smooth out most of the wrinkles from his shirt, he heard the snap of a twig. The sound made him whirl around at a speed he wasn't exactly comfortable with. The sight that greeted him almost caused him to fall over.

"Mr. Slater."

General Holdren approached him with a smile plastered on his face that made Paul feel exceedingly uncomfortable. So much so that he made a motion to grab the 9mm out from the waistband of his shorts.

General Holdren responded with the morbid _click_ of his Glock 9. He was followed by two other men that soon joined up with him, each with an AK-47. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said, his smile faltering slightly. "I'm certain you're pretty . . . capable with that weapon, but are you willing to stake it all just to nurse a wounded ego?"

For a moment, he was bewildered. "Wounded ego?" Paul asked. "What are you—?"

"I happened to catch the end of your little show," the General admitted unabashedly. That creepy smile of his still lingered. "My condolences, by the way. I'd hate to let something like that out of my grasp. She's certainly a little spitfire, that Suze Simon, isn't she? Don't get me wrong, I hate her guts, but if she gives as good as it appears she does, then I wouldn't mind taking a turn. You know, riding her 'till she squeals like a little piggy, begging for mo—"

Fury drenched Paul's vision in red, so it was with an incredibly biased head that he decided to take a swing at the General. Unfortunately, he missed, but Holdren didn't. His lips curled into a sneer before he landed a right hook squarely at Paul's face. He flew back a few feet. "Easy there, slugger," General Holdren admonished in the most patronizing fashion ever. "I was only joking. Just two guys ragging on each other. No need to get upset."

When Paul sat upright again, a stream of fresh blood dripped from his nose. He wiped at it angrily, and said through bared teeth, "F—k you, you son of a bitch. You mention her name again, and I _will_ kill you. You have my word."

The General feigned a fearful expression. "Ooh, those are pretty strong fighting words for someone of your . . . stature," he finally settled on. He laughed. "In case you haven't noticed, we're in the middle of nowhere. No civilization, no technology, no rules, no government. Out here in the jungle? Your 'word' amounts to less than nothing. It's survival of the fittest out here, chief, and judging from what has recently transpired, you don't even have a _chance_ of getting out of here alive. So I'm going to ask you politely to come with us."

"Go pound sand, Holdren," Paul spat, fists clenched at his side. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

General Holdren made a _tut-tut_ sound and shook his head sadly. "Are you sure that's the path you choose? You've already fared poorly twice in my presence, do you really want to make it a third?"

Paul, steely as ever, replied sternly, "I meant what I said, you insolent prick. I'm not leaving this spot willingly."

Holdren shrugged. "Suit yourself." He performed a roundhouse kick, and when his foot connected with Paul's temple, Paul crumpled in a pile on the ground, unconscious.

"Guess you'll just have to go unwillingly." General Holdren laughed, cracking his knuckles. He gestured for his troops to come forward. "Leibowitz, Reynolds, take care of Slater. We're heading back to camp."

"What about Simon?" Reynolds asked, his thick Jersey accent coming through clearly.

General Holdren just smiled. "Leave that to me."


	12. Between a Rock and a Gun Place

"Where's Paul?"

I felt like dirt. No, I felt lower than dirt. There were no words for how miserable I actually felt.

"Hello, Earth to Suze! Where's Paul?"

I could hear a faint ringing in my ears as a layer of sweat covered the palms of my hands. I tried wiping them off on my shorts, but it barely made a difference. The _thud_, _thud_ of my heart, which was normally undetectable, became so loud, I felt as if my skull might explode. The rhythm soon became a harbinger of insanity, like a ticking clock counting down the hours until an execution. Suddenly, sweaty palms seemed like a minor penalty in comparison.

Though my stomach had plummeted to what seemed like the very soles of my feet almost immediately after the event, I could still feel that dreadful void of emptiness and shame. Shame that I knew was all my fault. Because no matter how many different ways I tried to spin this, I couldn't paint myself as the victim in any shape, way, or form. There was no hiding it. I had acted purely out of my own selfish desire and lust; I had become a slave to a wicked combination the two. And Paul had simply been there. Available and interested. Something Vince wasn't lately.

Because, oh yeah, he was KIDNAPPED.

WORST. WIFE. EVER.

"Are you even listening to me?"

It didn't make sense. It didn't make sense at all. How had it felt so good? Why had Paul's touch ignited something so feral, so strong within me? And more importantly: why had I _liked_ it? I mean, it wasn't like I was in love with Paul. I loved Vince. That's why I married him.

_But_, a small voice challenged in my head, _what if you still have feelings for Paul?_

Suddenly, my breath caught in my throat, and all that _thud, thudding_ my heart had been doing just moments ago came to a screeching halt. Was I right? Could I subconsciously have been in love with Paul this whole time; only, I had been too stubborn to admit it to myself, let alone him? Was I just as pathetic as Paul?

More importantly, is that what I had done? Had I married Vince just so I could cope with what I had assumed was unrequited love? Had Vince been some red herring I had used for my selfish need to ignore major confrontation in my life?

Was I still in love with _Paul_?

Involuntarily, memories of our time together flooded into my head. The good, the bad, and the ugly; all of it came front and center in my thoughts. Basically, I was forced into rewatching the most indescribable fourteen months of my life. And if I was expecting some emotional torrent to overtake me, I was highly mistaken. Because, in all honesty, I felt nothing. Well, not nothing exactly. There was the obvious pleasant sensation of nostalgia, but anything extending past that did not exist. Because I wasn't in love with Paul. Maybe I had been at one time—it was hard to make out through the fog of sixteen years—but those feelings, if they existed at all, were completely gone.

The truth was I loved Vince.

I knew it in the way my heart, which had suffered so much abuse in the many weeks we had been here in the jungle, still ached with an intensity I had never known before. It was an ache that encompassed my own guilt over my licentious discretions and my fear of never seeing my husband again. _Alive_, the part of my brain—that I was decidedly ignoring—insisted on tacking onto the end of that thought. The chance that I would never be able to look into his deep blue eyes, or to see him smile, or hold his hand, or even hear his laugh again put me into a deep set panic. I couldn't breathe.

Sure, Vince and I had our marital problems, but he was my husband. More importantly, he was my friend. My best friend. The only other time I could remember feeling even remotely like this was the day I found out my dad disappeared.

Without even meaning to, I could feel the sharp prickle of tears beginning to form. _Oh, God!_ _How could I have betrayed him like that?_

"Where's my _freaking_ brother, Suze?"

"A-And what happened to your shirt?"

I was torn from my inner musings only to discover Jack glaring at me furiously while Maverick's gaze seemed to be fixated somewhere on my person below eyelevel. Feeling incredibly self-conscious, I crossed my arms over my chest in an attempt to cover myself as best I could. Thankfully, Charlie and Jesse just seemed to be relieved to see me return in one piece.

"Seriously, dude?" I demanded of Maverick, sniffling and subtly trying to bat away any tears that may have escaped from the corners of my eyes. The last thing I needed was a barrage of nosy questions. Then, I wrapped my arms around my body more tightly and rolled my eyes, partly grateful for the temporary distraction from my inner turmoil. Partly creeped out by Maverick's sudden interest in my chest. "They're just breasts! Geez, get a hold of yourself, will you?"

The Master had the decency to look mortified and to avert his gaze quickly to the far extreme of not looking at me at all. Jesse and Charlie, on the other hand, both tried to hide their amusement by suppressing their own laughter, but Jack was in no mood for games.

"_Suze_," he bellowed authoritatively. "My _brother_?"

Really, when he put his mind to it, Jack could be just as intimidating as his older brother. I cowered slightly at his intonation, but managed a weak, "I-I don't know where Paul is."

This answer was either not sufficient or not the answer Jack was looking for. His eyebrows rose in incredulity. "Wait, he told us he was going to find you, so he could apologize. Are you telling me he never met up with you?"

I shook my head. "No, he found me at the cave, but I felt too claustrophobic when we started exploring it, so I came back here. I'm sure Paul will be back shortly."

Actually, that was a lie. I had no idea when Paul would be back, if he decided to come back at all. Really, I couldn't blame the guy if he wanted to stay as far away from me as possible. But what Jack didn't know wouldn't kill him. Or at least I hoped so, at any rate.

"So did you guys finally kiss and make up?" he wanted to know.

Immediately, I could feel my face heat up at his poor choice of words. "Figuratively"—And literally, unfortunately.—"speaking, yeah, we . . . um, came to terms."

At least, I hoped we had come to terms. Running out like I had didn't exactly allow me insight into Paul's reaction regarding the whole thing. But if I knew Paul—and judging by the day's earlier events, I think I could safely say that I didn't know Paul nearly as well as I had always presumed I did—he would come sauntering back, arrogant smile in tow, not even a hint of our quarrel's effects anywhere about his person. Paul Slater: ever the professional. He would never allow a hair out of place, let alone convey internal heartache.

_Heartache_. I could not wrap my head around the idea of Paul emotionally affected by anyone or anything, let alone _me_. The idea would certainly require some time to adjust to, although hopefully he would take much more kindly to this "break up" than the first one. Though, admittedly, I wouldn't blame him if he didn't. Rejection sucked.

"So then where does your missing shirt come into all of this?" Maverick asked once again, jarring me from my internal monologue.

Simultaneously, Charlie, Jesse, Jack and myself either scoffed in disbelief or rolled our eyes. Jack even went so far as to smack him upside the head, which he did not take too kindly to. Charlie, on the other hand, muttered something under his breath as he shook his head. Thankfully, it was inaudible.

"What?" Maverick demanded, rubbing the back of his head, though it didn't look as if Jack had hit him nearly that hard. "It's a legitimately sound question! Oh, come on! Like the rest of you haven't been pondering the same thing since she returned! I mean it's not entirely my fault, is it? I'm certainly not going out of my way to be distracted by naked—well, half naked, anyway—female flesh, anymore than Suze is going out of her way to purposefully flaunt said naked—half naked—female flesh, though a shirt wouldn't exactly do any harm, or even—"

Immediately, I clasped my arms over whatever part of my body I could cover successfully, and before I could defend myself, Charlie beat me to the punch. "Kid, do us all a favor, and stop talking before you dig yourself even deeper into this hole of embarrassment and mortification you so kindly dragged the rest of us into."

Then he directed his attention my way, politely and resolutely keeping his gaze at my eye level. "And for the love of God, Suzie," he continued, jabbing a thumb at Maverick, "cover yourself with something so the kid here doesn't pass out or have an epileptic seizure of sorts. I have some medical training from my later days in 'Nam, but they never taught us how to deal with a man seeing a real, live naked woman for the first time in his life. I reckon it's a telling commentary on the sad state of the public school system in this country."

Jesse and Jack both tried to stifle their laughter, while Maverick turned the shade of embarrassment I felt. "I have—on _numerous _occasions—seen a real, naked woman's actual breasts," he insisted angrily, balling his hands into fists. He cast a quick glance in my direction, his Adam's apple bobbing erratically, "just none of them have been quite as perfect as h—"

"Son, I _wasn't _kidding," Charlie snarled angrily as he cracked his knuckles, for extra emphasis, I guess.

Maverick muttered an apology before involving himself in some kind of chore out of earshot, more than likely planning to never speak to any of us ever again. I, on the other hand, reached my bag and began rummaging through it, finally settling on a piece from my current spring collection: a rayon blend, royal purple tank top with sweetheart neckline, embroidering on the straps, and strategic pieces missing from the back. Normally, I preferred natural fabrics, but you couldn't be too choosy when it came to a predicament such as ours; plus, had I known this is where I would be spending my vacation, instead of Pennsylvania, I would have packed a more practical wardrobe. "You didn't have to be so hard on him," I admonished Charlie, pulling my new shirt on over my head. Looking down, I noticed I had put it on backwards, so I squirmed around in an attempt to right my error.

Charlie wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand before answering, "In the short time since knowing you, Suzie, I've come to think of you as my own daughter, and the idea that he might be looking at you with devious intentions of any kind, in all honesty, creeps me the hell out." I couldn't help but swell with pride and smile brightly even if he didn't say hell. "Plus, you're married," he added unnecessarily. "Kid should be more respectful."

It took all I had in me to keep my jaw from hanging open. Major Charles O'Neil. _Charlie_, the most foul mouthed, least moral character—next to Paul, of course—in our group was not so subtly reminding _me_ of the sanctity of marriage. How low had I sunk that I was seeking moral council from _Charlie_? Imagine if I had actually slept with the guy instead of just kissed him!

The thought made my blood run cold, especially considering how frighteningly close to reality that scenario actually was had it not been for some choice decisions and a timely flashback. I've never considered myself to be a religious person, but if divine intervention ever existed, that was proof enough to make me a believer of sorts. Now if only Vince was still alive.

_Please be alive_ . . .

"In all seriousness, _querida_," Jesse piped in, crossing his arms over his chest, "what did happen to your shirt?"

He laughed, though admittedly not as much after I playfully punched him in the arm. Jack even managed to crack a smile. "Well, to make a long story short," I obliged them all, "in the cave we found more . . . _insects_ like the one that attacked Charlie. The major difference being that the ones in the cave did not have wings, and they had way more legs. Like if a millipede and a scary, hell demon creature mated."

Jack allowed a grin while Jesse frowned slightly in thought. Obviously, the topic of unidentifiable creatures took precedence over the whereabouts of my shirt, which suited me just fine. Not that the story was embarrassing or anything, but the tale was so closely linked to my indiscretions with Paul that inevitably I would let something slip. I in no way wanted to let something slip to Jesse, or God forbid, Jack. I mean, how embarrassing! Just what I always wanted to discuss with Jack: how I had just had my tongue down his older brother's throat.

Not.

"Anyway," I continued, brushing a strand of hair out of my eye, "one of these creatures crawled onto my back, and then about a hundred more of his friends joined him. Rather than waiting for one of them to rip my eye out like they did to Charlie, I yanked my shirt off. It was a question of safety over modesty at that point."

"So these creatures," Jesse pressed on, showing little, if any, concern for my sacrificed modesty, "what else can you tell me about them? Though it seems unlikely, did you manage to get a sample?"

Pleased that I had some good news at least, I nodded. "Yeah, Paul managed to grab one when I was still up there." Jesse's whole face lit up in anticipation for the upcoming dissection he knew he would be a part of. I smiled fondly, then I remembered something. "Oh! And I almost forgot! As soon as sunlight touched those bugs, they burst into flame before completely disappearing."

"Why's that so significant, though?" Jack wanted to know. He had, by this time, taken a seat on a particularly large rock, and he allowed his arm to dangle over his right knee. He shrugged. "Every other time we've run into these . . . _things_, they've disintegrated, too. It's basically the same thing, right?"

I shook my head, crossing my arms over my chest. "No. Well, not according to Paul, anyway. See, it was different in the cave. Instead of fizzing and disappearing into thin air, they caught on fire as soon as the sunlight touched their skin. It was totally creepy."

"Interesting," Jesse breathed, not directing the one-word proclamation to anyone in particular. He ran his fingers through his hair and then proceeded to swipe a hand over the lower portion of his face. The skin there had once been smooth and hair-free, but it had been weeks, possibly even a month, since Jesse's face had been touched by a razor. A dusting of dark hair shadowed his face, making him look older, wearier. "I wonder why that is."

Once again, eager to have an answer, I volunteered, "Paul mentioned something about a chemical secretion on the creatures' skin. One that would react with direct sunlight in a 'sun-hits-creature-creature-goes-fizzle-_poof_!' kind of way."

Jack grinned at my description in such an adorably charming way, I had no choice but to reciprocate the gesture, despite how crummy I was feeling. Jesse, on the other hand, merely tilted his head to the side in recognition of my statement. "Though I've not come across such a phenomenon in all my years of study, logistically speaking it could be possible," he concluded. "It would certainly support our theory of rapidly increased evolutionary development."

Charlie hung his head and shook it in a defeated way. "You kids and your bat shit insane theories," he remarked, running his fingers through his hair. "I tell ya', if any of this turns out to be true and not the aftereffects of a bad acid trip, I'll be pleasantly surprised."

We laughed, unable to word our own sentiments any better. "Something feels . . . _strange_ about this development, though," Jesse pointed out, "like I have been in this situation previously, or have heard someone talk about it. It almost feels like—"

"Déjà vu?" I piped in.

"Precisely!" he exclaimed. "I can't quite put my finger on it, but the feeling overall is . . . uncomfortable, to say the least."

"Yeah, well we're all gonna be uncomfortable soon enough if we don't start headin' out before the sun goes down," Charlie forewarned as he turned his sidearm's safety on right before placing it in the back of his pants. "C'mon, folks. You know the drill by now."

For whatever reason, Jack took great umbrage at this. He abruptly stood, and insisted, "Whoa, we're not going anywhere until my brother gets back." The sound of snapping twigs caught my attention, but upon investigation, I discovered it was just the Master. He rejoined us, decidedly having overcome his own crippling embarrassment. I tried not to smile . . . or cringe. "Suze," Jack directed at me, an edge of nerves and irritation evident in his tone, "where the hell is Paul?"

"You mean you didn't tell them?"

Everything happened at once. I heard the frightening _click_ of a switchblade being released, and then I felt the cold, hard steel of the blade against my jugular as a large arm wrapped around my chest from behind. I could feel my body react immediately. Blood pulsated erratically from limb to limb, my temples began to throb, and the rest of my body became rigid, as if I had looked straight into the eyes of Medusa herself. Instinctively, I knew that bone chilling voice could only belong to one person.

"I have to say, I'm a little disappointed, Ms. Simon. I thought you said you were made of thicker stuff than that. Then again," General Holdren shrugged, "I suppose if the roles were reversed, I wouldn't be too keen in revealing my . . . _indiscretions_ either. Especially if I was a well-respected woman of integrity, such as yourself. Gentlemen!"

Somehow he knew. About Paul and me, I mean. Even though I couldn't see his face, I just knew a sardonic smile stretched across his unforgivingly harsh face. Fury, in addition to fear, raced through my veins, as I tried to telepathically plead with my captor to keep my "indiscretions" to himself. If I thought I was busted before, this was way worse.

Like, _way_ worse.

_Please don't say anything!_

Following the General's small speech, about ten men suddenly appeared in the forest behind the two of us. All at once, guns clacked into place as all of Holdren's men lifted their firearms into place. Charlie, Maverick, Jesse, and Jack weren't far behind with their own guns. All of them looked like I felt: scared and angry beyond anything imaginable.

Within moments, I felt the switchblade dig deeper into my skin as General Holdren's grasp on me tightened painfully. A pathetic whimper escaped from me as I tried to squirm out from his grip. I wasn't particularly accustomed to being held hostage, and it showed when my actions elicited an even tighter, more painful grasp from my captor.

"I'd put your weapons away, boys," Holdren gestured toward my guys. He held me at such a painful angle and so close to him that I could feel his own heartbeat thudding along calmly underneath his Kevlar vest and regulation fatigues. "We wouldn't want li'l Suzie here to get hurt, now would we?"

"Hurt her in any way," Charlie snarled in response, his facial expression harder than I'd ever seen, "I'll riddle your skull with bullets. Mark my words."

He unwaveringly clutched onto his gun, striking a menacing stance. The others followed directly flanking him. Only Jesse shook for a hint of a second as he cocked the hammer on his pistol.

This blatant act of defiance majorly enraged the General. He spat irately, "_I wasn't_ _kidding_!"

Promptly, he swiped the blade down my cheek, eliciting a scream and a trail of blood from me, as well as shocked gasps from Charlie and the others. "Anyone else decides to play the role of quipping hero, and next time I plunge this through her f—king temple, _understand_?" he bellowed. "Now put the damned guns down!"

Instead of complying, they took a step closer, looking even more menacing than before. "Let her go first!" Jack demanded.

In response, General Holdren took the hand that wasn't holding the switchblade and used it to grab a handful of hair and yank my head back, thrusting the blade even closer to my throat. I yelped in pain and began to cry. "_Please_!" I begged as two tears slid down either side of my face.

Holdren cackled as a result of my plea. "Always turns me on when they beg." He accompanied this statement by thrusting his pelvis into my backside, eliciting laughter and catcalls from both himself and the small army of men behind him. A cocktail of mortification and white hot rage washed over me. "Now," he directed toward Charlie and the others, "you heard the lady, gentlemen! Put your weapons DOWN!"

They only hesitated for a moment. Jesse was the first to follow the order; Maverick was the last.

"Good." You could practically hear the smile of victory in his voice. "Now, kick them away from you."

Once again, Charlie, Jack, Jesse, and Maverick followed the order. Only Charlie and Jesse looked like doing so made them physically ill.

"Good!" the General boomed, more content in his power play than his opposition's compliance. I'm sure a hideous smile made its way onto his face. He yanked my head back by my hair, causing another pathetic moan to slip past my lips. "Now," he said much more gruffly, the scent of his vileness overpowering, "if any of you so much as steps one toe out of line, I _will_ kill her."

Jack, who realized he couldn't do anything to help me at the moment, decided to switch the topic of conversation. "Where's my brother?" he asked cautiously, though his voice by no means wavered.

"Your brother?" Holdren wondered aloud. Recognition suddenly became evident in his voice. "Oh! You must mean Paul Slater." He paused. "You mean to tell me that arrogant jackass is your brother . . . ?"

"Jack," he offered through gritted teeth. Jesse placed a calming, yet restrictive hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"Ah, _Jack_!" the General repeated, an unnatural amount of felicity in his voice. "Now that you mention it, the resemblance is a little uncanny. But in answer to your question, Jack, your brother is currently residing back at our camp."

"You mean kidnapped against his will!" Jesse corrected him darkly, an undertone of fury evident.

Judging by his body tensing, I could tell the General shrugged. "You say, 'kidnapped against his will,' I say, 'citizen's arrest for aiding and abetting a wanted fugitive of the United States government.' It's all semantics, really."

Jesse frowned and asked sternly, "Under what authority can you claim this supposed power? Your jurisdiction cannot possibly cover innocent, tax-paying United States citizens in South America."

Even though I was pretty sure that, as a four star general, Holdren could probably do whatever he wanted, I didn't think it was wise to correct my defense. I watched enough _Law and Order _marathons to know that much. Plus, enough evidence told me that if I so much as blinked, my captor would have no qualms in killing me.

General Holdren laughed. "'Under what authority?'" he repeated. "I think I've made myself quite clear in stating I'll slit her throat at even the tiniest show of insurrection."

Like I said.

"Yeah, you've been crystal," Charlie replied brusquely. "What I'm still fuzzy on is why you're here, beating on women, trying to affirm your masculinity. State your piece, then let her go."

For a moment, I thought Holdren was going to snap. I could feel him tense, my heart in my throat, but he relaxed. I took the opportunity to try and develop an escape plan. "Charlie, is it?" Holdren wondered aloud. "Major Charles O'Neil?"

Charlie nodded tersely. "Yes, sir."

This, for whatever reason, caused the General to laugh. "If you don't mind me saying, Major, you have a lot of nerve insulting your superior like that. Especially considering how you have become the longest running punch line in the United States Marine Corps. I've got buddies in Pennsylvania that say they should have put you out to pasture years ago. They say you're an embarrassment to the entire military institution and to your country; you're a disgrace. Essentially, your name, Major, is synonymous with mud."

In my thirty-six short years on this earth, I had learned in my youth that my fists rarely, if ever, solved conflicts. Yet, had I been able to break free from the General's tight grip, I would have decked him. Considering how he had threatened my well-being at least three times since he invaded our camp, General Holdren's name wasn't exactly sparkly clean either. Where did he get off saying all those terrible things about Charlie? Granted, he had some . . . questionable personality quirks, but all of those aside, I'd pick Charlie over Holdren every time, given the chance.

Major O'Neil hung his head and laughed quietly to himself. He straightened his beret before saying, "You're right, General," he admitted in a mild, yet unwavering voice. He lifted his gaze, filled with decisiveness and assurance, to Holdren and stood more erect. "I am a shitty soldier. I've never been able to fully detach myself from combat, never been able to kill without remorse of some kind. I'm a cranky, old shell of a man who stopped living a meaningful life the minute I received word that my fiancée had died. The first shred of purpose I've felt since then has been this gig.

"So, yeah," he agreed, "the guys back home have every right to poke fun at me because let's face it: I'm a joke of a soldier. But as far as my character goes—I am solid. I know and God knows that I'm a man of integrity, and while I'm far from perfect, I know that I'm a hell of a better man that you will _ever_ be. Sir."

Once again, I could feel General Holdren's whole body tense. He remained still and silent for a long moment before he inquired, "Is that so?"

Charlie barely had the time to nod that, yes, that was so before Holdren reached behind him, grabbed his Glock 9, and fired a shot right through Charlie's left knee cap. Blood, small pieces of skin, and bits of bone exploded once the bullet pierced through his leg. Charlie let out a howl of pain before collapsing to the ground, his leg too weak to support the rest of his weight.

I screamed, louder and more terror-filled than ever. The guys made desperate moves to get over to Charlie, but Holdren roared, "Nobody move! Otherwise, the next time I shoot will be to kill!"

In all my thirty-six years of living, I had never witnessed anyone being shot before. I mean, yeah, Vince was way into the Dirty Harry movies, so obviously I'd seen someone get shot, but not up close. Not personally. No one ever tells you about the ringing in your ear after the gun has fired, and they sure as hell don't tell you how scary it is to watch someone get shot. Especially when you're powerless to stop them from being shot in the first place.

The guys retreated, obviously not wanting to, but seeing it as the only way to keep Charlie from enduring anymore pain. For his part, the Major seemed to be doing his best to keep silent and to keep General Holdren from getting the satisfaction of his, Charlie's, discomfort. His age betrayed him, however, and he could be heard moaning as quietly as possible.

Jack, on the other hand, looked positively livid, as if given the chance, he could murder Holdren without even breaking a sweat. Not only had his brother been kidnapped, but now his best friend had been shot without a chance to defend himself. I could almost feel the pain and anger radiating off of him. Considering I was nearing my own boiling point, I empathized entirely.

"Get to the point, Holdren," he demanded darkly. I had never heard someone's voice sound angry, scared, and saddened simultaneously. "I know you didn't hunt us down just so you could hurl empty threats and insults at us all day."

General Holdren's voice boomed in my ears. "Astute observation, Jack! Now it's simple, really. All Ms. Simon has to do is hand over her father's note, and the rest of you—" He made sure to gesture to Maverick, Jack, and Jesse, on the off chance they forgot who they were, I guess. "—need to come with me quietly, no resistance whatsoever."

"So what do we get out of this arrangement?" Maverick demanded, his hands balled up into fists at his sides. "Do we even get a guarantee that our friends will be unharmed?"

Before Holdren began laughing as if this was the funniest thing he had ever heard, I felt touched by Maverick's words. And, okay, so he apparently had this creepy fascination with my chest, but whatever. He called me his friend. That had to count for something.

"I'm sorry, what do _you_ get out of this deal?" Holdren repeated in a tone that suggested he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. "_You_ get to be alive! Granted, there's going to be some prison time involved, but I am being pretty damn merciful not killing _all_ of you for what you've put me through. Especially you, Ms. Simon." He emphasized this with a not so gentle squeeze around my neck.

"And what about Paul? What about the rest of us?" Jesse reminded him gruffly. I'd only ever seen him truly angry a handful of times before, and if my memory served correctly, none of those times ever ended positively. I prayed that he wouldn't do anything stupid.

Holdren scoffed, then laughed sinisterly. "What about 'im? Anderson, Reynolds—" He gestured to my guys again. "—tie 'em up, then let's move out."

"No."

It wasn't as if I intended to cause an insurrection. I swear. I mean, nowadays, I barely so much as blinked an eye at my manicurist for botching my nails. But something inside of me at that precise moment snapped. Suddenly, beyond anything else, I felt _tired_. Tired of having some creep's knife up against my throat, tired of running, and tired of having the people I loved most in the world threatened almost constantly. So, yeah, I was tired. And you know what else? I was annoyed. And _pissed_. Like, super pissed. The illogical conclusion I jumped to suggested that I could not be blamed for my next course of action.

"What did you say?" Holdren asked gruffly.

I had a sneaking suspicion that he had heard me just fine the first time, but I obliged him anyway. My voice sounded raspy from the combined fear and lack of use within the past forty minutes or so. My throat felt scratchy, too, but I made sure to enunciate properly. "No," I repeated, this time much firmer than before.

Instead of hitting me—which I halfway expected him to do—General Holdren laughed again. "Ms. Simon, you seem to think that the fate of this little group rests on democratic decision when it, in fact, does not."

"And you," I said, "seem to think that by insulting me it will stop me from kicking your sorry ass when, in fact, it will not."

"Tough words for s—" Holdren began, but he never had the opportunity to finish because I smashed the back of my head into his face. I noticed he changed his tune entirely soon after. "You _bitch_!" he snarled, teeth gnashing.

For good measure, I slammed my foot down on his, satisfied to discover his boots weren't steel toed at all. "Call me 'bitch' one more time, and I will make absolutely _certain_ those are the last words you'll ever get a chance to say to me before I kill you!" I threatened before promptly running back over to the others.

I could hear Holdren growl in frustration, but I resolutely ignored him and made my way over to the Major as quickly as possible. "Charlie!" I gasped, collapsing at his side. By this time, a good sized pool of blood had formed on the forest floor. "Oh, God!" I had the strong urge to vomit, and the overwhelming metallic scent wasn't helping. I had never seen so much blood before. "Are you okay? Are you strong enough to stand on your own?"

In the background, I faintly noticed Jesse, Maverick, and Jack making an effort to grab their discarded weapons. Primarily, though, I noticed how Charlie made the courageous effort of forcing a smile even though it just barely covered a pain induced wince. "Of course I'm strong enough," he assured me, making an effort to prove his point. "I've been in worse scrapes than this, Suzie."

At once, he slowly stood erect and attempted to put pressure on his injured leg, but immediately, he collapsed again. Before I could cry about the sheer desperation and hopelessness of the situation, I called Jesse over to give me a hand. Just because Charlie was out of commission didn't mean that we could give up. I knew in the pit of my heart that whether it was divine intervention again, or the universe not so subtly telling me I needed to sack up, this was my time to step up as the leader of this group. Charlie had carried us, particularly me, this far into our mission, and for that I was grateful. But I knew it was time for me to put my foot down, to stop looking to my past to define me, and to retake the reigns of my messed up life and try putting the pieces back together.

Oh, yeah. That's right, Universe: Suze Simon is back!

And this time, she's going balls out, Xena: Warrior Princess on everyone's asses, whether they asked for it or not.

_Hells, yeah!_

I threw one of Charlie's arms over my shoulders, while Jesse did the same thing on his other side. With our combined effort, we were able to successfully lift him. Quickly, I scanned the surrounding area for anywhere that would give us sufficient cover. I spotted a clump of trees not too far from where we were standing. "Jesse," I ordered, "let's take him over there."

Jesse nodded and we began to hobble the small distance between our current position and the new shelter. Maverick and Jack noticed our current direction and fell in step behind us. Meanwhile, I heard Holdren roar, "DON'T JUST STAND THERE! _SHOOT THEM_!"

Following his command, a small chorus of cocked weapons sounded right before a barrage of bullets soared our way. A few whizzed by us, far too close for comfort, and one, right before we reached our cover, grazed the side of my arm, taking a layer of skin with it. I could feel blood trickle down from the wound, while at the same I had to grit my teeth to keep from crying out in pain. Call me a baby if you want, but you try being grazed by a bullet. It's not fun _or_ painless, let me tell you! I snuck a quick glance behind me to see if I could pick out whoever fired that bullet, but I didn't really need to. General Holdren had a predatory sneer on his face. He looked immeasurably proud of his effort as he pulled the hammer back on his gun, once again aiming in my direction.

Safely behind the trees, Jesse and I propped Charlie up against one of the thicker trees. His bullet wound kept losing major amounts of blood. Noticing how squeamish I looked, Jesse said urgently, "Susannah, see if you can find me a small object I can use to stop this from bleeding."

I nodded and left to find a stone or a piece of bark or something that could be identified as a "small object." After a minute or so—it was definitely difficult to concentrate with repetitive gunfire volleying back and forth—I found a rock about the size of the hole in Charlie's leg. I wiped the dirt off the best I could and brought it back to Jesse. He took the rock from my outstretched hand and placed it over Charlie's wound. I watched as he proceeded to tear a strip of fabric from his shirt to use to keep the rock in place. Doggedly suppressing any urge to gag, I crouched down next to Jesse and held the stone in place while he tied the piece of his shirt around Charlie's leg tight enough so the stone stayed in place. The blood hadn't completely stopped, but it had slowed down considerably. Objectively speaking, I couldn't tell whether Charlie or I was more relieved.

"Watch after him, Susannah," Jesse told me. He grabbed his Luger from its holster, and added, "If the bleeding increases let me know. We can't keep his leg in this state for too long. If the blood flow is cut off from his lower leg for too long, we will have to amputate it, but considering our situation, our options are limited. In the mean time, we need to take down as many of Holdren's goons as we can. At least—" I watched as his Adam's apple bobbed nervously. "—until all of our ammunition is gone or we can leave the area safely."

"Roger that, De Silva," I threw his way. He grinned for only a moment before peeking around the tree we were situated behind and taking a couple shots. I tried to ignore him and focus on Charlie. That's who needed my help right now.

"You're going to be okay, Charlie," I tried to assure him bravely as I could muster. His breathing became jagged, as if he was consciously focusing on each breath to make sure it didn't hurt him. "Just . . . Just hang on."

_Hang on_? What a stupid thing to say! Hang on to what? My hand? His consciousness? That tree root? His _life_? I had never been less sure of a statement in all my life. For Charlie's sake, I hoped that didn't show.

"Suzie," Charlie said through gritted teeth. I could see how hard he was trying to keep the pain and fear out of his voice. That gesture alone warmed my heart. "I've been in much worse hell than this during my time. So you can relax." He paused. "In the event that I do die—"

"No," I blurted, my voice cracking. I couldn't bear to hear him finish his statement. Charlie couldn't die. He was like this invisible . . . _thing_, this invincible force to be reckoned with. He was like Superman or something. Well, more like Captain America what with the whole soldier thing. Minus the super secret experimentations, and oh, my God, Vince stop infiltrating my inner thought process with your nerd ramblings. Why does he know these things anyway?

My heart lurched. What I wouldn't give to ramble on about _anything_, even if it was a speech on why Aquaman is a seriously underestimated member of the Justice League. I probably sounded repetitive, but I missed Vince so much.

"You're gonna make it, Charlie," I repeated, "I swear to you. And when we get back to the States, you can tell me more about Susan, and you can bore me with details about your time in combat and how you had to walk ten miles to school—uphill! both ways!—it'll be great; I promise."

That warranted a laugh from Charlie, and I heaved a small sigh of relief (it's the same old Charlie) before he started moaning and clutching his injured leg. I swallowed, steeling myself against an outburst of tears. To distract me, I blind fired my pistol from behind the tree we were both hiding behind. That lasted two rounds before the gun emitted that ominous, empty _click_ sound. "Charlie, do you have any extra ammo?"

He barely shook his head, but his meaning was clear. Unwilling to give up, I glanced around at the other guys. "Does anyone have any extra clips? I'm out."

Maverick had some, but Jesse said, "I am out as well, _querida_."

Before I had a moment to panic even more about the lack of ammunition, Jack interrupted from behind us. "More bullets wouldn't do us much good anyway. There's too many of them," he said, gesturing in front of us, "and we're not exactly in the best defensive position ever. Plus, we need to get Charlie somewhere safe, so Jesse can take a better look at his leg. We have to get out of here."

Maverick somehow managed to roll his eyes, despite the gunfire, and quipped, "Well, we concluded that much on our own, surprisingly enough. How do you propose we actually go about _doing _that?"

Jack just smirked, as he dug around in his backpack. His expression brightened when he found what he was looking for. I wasn't able to see what he was so excited about until he stated, "With this."

I nearly choked on my spit. A _grenade_. He was holding a _grenade_. "Are you out of your _mind_?" I may or may not have included gratuitous swearing. "You can't just use a-a . . . _grenade_." I made sure to keep my voice as low as possible, in the event Holdren could hear our hypothetical plan. With all the gunfire happening, though, it proved unnecessary. Still, you couldn't be too careful. "Despite how much I despise him, Holdren's still government personnel. We could get in serious trouble if we . . . _kill_ him."

Jack seemed to find my reaction somewhat amusing; his mouth quirked up at the corner. "What other option do we have, Suze? We're pretty much out of ammunition, and we're in desperate need of a distraction, so we can get the hell out of here." He tossed the grenade up in the air and then caught it again in his outstretched palm. "This baby solves both problems."

I bit my lip. He certainly had a point. I mean, it was sort of hypocritical of me to be worried about the disastrous effects of a grenade when I had no problem with firing a gun at Holdren and his men. In fact, part of me sort of relished it. My grudge aside though, from a rational standpoint, Jack's idea made sense. Right before I gave my ascent, a thought occurred to me.

"What about your brother?"

Jack hesitated for only a moment, and I totally would have missed it had I so much as turned my head or even blinked. His Adam's apple bobbed with resolve, and he emitted an even, "We'll have to leave him for right now." Though he didn't show it, I could tell it nearly killed him to admit that. "He can hold his own for now until we can rescue him. We're no use to him dead."

He was right, of course. Even the part of me that couldn't bear the thought of how mortified I would be once I saw Paul again realized that. It's not as if I wanted Paul to get hurt; I so didn't. I just, I didn't want him to blab about the whole me kissing him thing. Thankfully, my conscience was able to keep my priorities in check, though: Paul's life far surpassed my wounded pride. At least . . . I thought it did.

No, no, it totally did. Get it together, Simon.

I swallowed the lump of fear and hesitation in the back of my throat, not without trouble. I motioned for Maverick to come help me with Charlie. Finding a brief respite in gunfire, he made his way over (in a surprisingly stealthy way for such an . . . unstealthy person), and after some difficulty, helped me prop Charlie up. The Major hung limply between us, most likely unresponsive due to shock. Again, I felt guilt well up in my chest; I didn't want to be responsible for both Charlie's and Paul's deaths. Finally, I relented: "Okay." I slammed my eyes shut, scrunching my facial features in the process. "Do it."

Jack just smirked in a villainous kind of way. "With pleasure," he snarled, relishing the taste of the words on his tongue. He ripped the pin out with his teeth—which, eww, totally unsanitary—and lobbed it into the clearing between us and Holdren. Before impact, I heard him mutter, "That's for Paul, you son of a bitch."

I know no one ever talks about the whole getting shot thing, but no one _ever_ talks about a grenade explosion. The most noticeable occurrence was the sound; I may be beating my point like a dead horse, but a grenade explosion is _loud_. Not only that, but shrapnel and dirt flew everywhere, followed by a wave of heat that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Thankfully, Maverick had a good hold on Charlie as well as a solid stance because the force of the blast threw me to the ground. I tried to land on my hands, but one slipped, and most of my fall was broken by my head. I could feel a sharp pain somewhere in the vicinity of my forehead. More than that, though, was the high pitched ringing in my ears blocking all other sound. It was like wearing those headsets the doctors make you wear for hearing tests, the ones that are soundproof.

I scrambled to my feet, eventually with the assistance of Jesse who had made his way to my side. He was saying something frantically judging by his facial features, but I could not hear a single word. Scared, I glanced around at everyone else. Once again, their mouths were moving, but I couldn't hear anything either of them was saying. Much like Jesse, Jack was frantically waving his arms. Even though I couldn't hear him, his meaning was perfectly clear: let's get out of here.

+SS+

General Holdren had an easier time of ignoring the ringing in his ears. By this time, his anger had completely consumed him. It served as an excellent anesthetic, though: he could barely feel the pieces of shrapnel lodged in his forearm. As he shuffled back into their camp's perimeter, he made a mental note of thanks for his Kevlar vest. Other than a couple minor, sustained injuries, Holdren was fine. His temper, on the other hand, was thoroughly homicidal.

Furious, he shook any residual pain away and marched to the center of the camp, his men following suit. The camp wasn't much of a spectacle. It included a couple canvas tents, a makeshift canopy and table with sundry items atop it: firearms, ammunition, a few rations, and flashlights. What was left of their team casually patrolled the outskirts of the camp, while Grabowski, along with two other men, remained standing in front of a man tied to a tree by his wrists. He was breathing heavily, his entire body heaving drastically as he tried to fill his lungs with more air. Impeded by a combination of failed strength and no leverage, the bruised and bloodied victim hung limply. As Holdren approached, the victim lifted his head with great effort. Through a black eye and a split lip, he smiled (or at least attempted to smile) at the General. "Holdren! So nice of you to join us again," the victim said in a raspy voice. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten all about me. Not exactly setting a great example for the rest of your unit in hospitality, now are you?"

Holdren gritted his teeth, the pressure in his head exploding. His fists subconsciously balled at his sides. Mentally, he counted to ten before responding, "And miss out on an opportunity for us to bond, man to man?" He laughed darkly. "I wouldn't miss that opportunity for the world! Comfortable?"

His only explanation for not bashing the little punk's skull in was that he needed information from him. And despite himself, he preferred not to get violent in front of Grabowski. On the occasions that he lost control in front of her, he watched as she stared at him with fear so blatantly etched in her stare. For all of her shortcomings, Holdren liked Grabowski, as a partner and a person. He didn't want her thinking that he was some kind of monster.

Defiant as ever, Paul said as cheerfully as possible, given his circumstances, "Never better! Felicity and I were just talking, weren't we, Felicity? You know, about how all of this gross misconduct is in violation of my eighth and ninth amendment rights as an American." He paused. "If we stretch it, I bet we could definitely include the fourteenth in there as well. What with the due process clause and that whole pesky penumbra situation."

Before he could respond, Felicity stepped forward, her arms crossed over her chest, a frown on her face. "Where is Ms. Simon?" she demanded, a note of concern present in her voice. She peered over his shoulder, and her demeanor softened slightly when she saw the injured and beaten status of the other soldiers. "Where are the others?"

Holdren shifted his attention from Slater to his partner. "We ran into a bit of an . . . altercation and were unable to retain Ms. Simon and her band of merry men."

Paul scoffed, a laugh escaping from his parched and bloodied lips. "Like _hell_! Suze owned your ass, and good for her! She's way smarter than your whole outfit combined. You are _never_ going to catch her."

Attempting to keep his fury in check, Holdren tore his gaze from Grabowski and stepped over to where the prisoner was hanging. "Oh, really? And why do you say that?"

Paul stated simply, "Because she wants it more. And because she's not a manipulative, dumb _freak_ such as yourself."

Unable to keep himself in check any longer, Holdren slammed his fist into Paul's lower abdomen. Wheezing, Paul keeled over, as much as his restraints would allow. His body creaked and groaned in protest; his muscles were taught with fear and hyper awareness. He had been searching for some way of escape to no avail since they initially tied him up. As of yet, he had no options available.

"I don't think you're hurting enough, Slater," Holdren confided in his prisoner. "You're far too disrespectful and arrogant to truly grasp how desperate your situation is. In addition to being dumped by your whore of a girlfriend, you will die at my hands. I swear to you."

Incensed, Paul spat, "Good. Anything to grant me a reprieve from your asinine power trip ramblings."

For his disrespect, Paul earned a punch in the face, as well as one to the stomach. Holdren yanked Paul's head back by pulling a handful of his hair. "Keep being cute, Slater. I'm feeling particularly violent, which may or may not have something to do with one of your friends throwing a grenade at us earlier. Now before I get truly pissed off, _where is Susannah Simon_, and more importantly, _where the hell is Peter Simon_?"

Paul smiled. He could feel blood dripping from his nose and down his face. "I have no idea."

Without warning, Holdren once again punched Paul in the face. His grasp on Paul's hair tightened. "DON'T SCREW WITH ME, YOU USELESS SACK OF SHIT! WHERE IS YOUR BITCH OF AN EX AND WHERE THE _HELL_ IS HER FATHER?"

Paul momentarily forgot about being a wise guy, and snarled, "Don't you dare talk about Suze like that, you son of a bitch!"

Holdren seemed to find this amusing. He chuckled before asking, "Oh, yeah? And what are you going to do about it?"

Without another word, Paul spit in Holdren's face, victory bubbling in the back of his throat. At least if he was killed, he could have the satisfaction of thoroughly humiliating his captor. Enraged, Holdren swiped at his face, flicking the spit off of his hand. Rage consuming him, he slammed his knee into Paul's crotch as hard as he possibly could manage. Involuntarily, a pained whimper emitted from Paul's mouth, as a horrendous ache scoured through his nerves from the point of contact to every imaginable part of his body.

"WHERE ARE THEY?" Holdren roared, one hand wrapped around Paul's neck, the other held back, ready to slam into his face in the event Paul decided to be a smartass again.

Thinking better of it, Paul ignored the urge to say something cocky. Instead, he focused on keeping all evidence of pain out of his voice as he responded as calmly as possible, "I don't know where Suze is, and I have no idea where Pete is. I was kidnapped before anyone shared any rendezvous plans with me."

For good measure, Holdren decked him one more time in the stomach. He emitted a grunt of disgust at the sound of Paul wheezing and coughing before slinging his assault rifle over his shoulder. "Grabowski. Reynolds." He gestured for them to follow his lead. "Let's go. Anderson, Wyatt, look after the prisoner. And if he escapes, I will personally kill both of you with my bare hands."

Paul had every intention of ending the standoff with the kind of flourish it deserved, but he blacked out before he could utter another word. The last thing he remembered was Holdren and his crew heading toward the perimeter of the camp as well as the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

**+SS+**

"I think we are a safe enough distance away, Jack," Jesse said, panting. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "Do you see anyone following us?"

Jack searched the area meticulously. For the better part of what felt like an hour, he had led us on a snake-like path through heavy thickets of trees before we came to the slight clearing we currently stood in. The only landmark of significance was a large stone structure, with strange symbols carved on it. Though, I only caught small glimpses of them because the structure had since become the victim of heavy undergrowth—a combination of moss, some kind of ivy, and other various flora. I took the momentary stop to lean against the stone in order to catch my breath. My lungs felt like they were doused in fire.

"Coast seems to be all clear," Jack replied, sounding on edge. "Still, we shouldn't hang out in one place for too long. We can rest for a bit, but that was way too damn close for my own liking. How are you holding up, Charlie?"

Maverick, who had supported the Major for most of our escape, relished the opportunity to set him up against the large stone. Immediately, Jesse crouched down next to Charlie and offered him his canteen. Begrudgingly, he took it, and drank. When he was finished, he wiped his mouth with a visibly shaky hand. "I'm fine, kid. It's just a minor setback. Quit coddling me."

Jack managed a smile, but I could tell he was still worried for his friend. As was I, but I tried to shove any thought regarding the possible death of Charlie out of my head because they would inevitably lead to tears. As the new leader of the group, I couldn't afford to show any weakness.

Meanwhile, Jesse examined his crude medical work on Charlie's leg, a frown on his face. "This won't hold forever," he said more to Charlie than to us. If the statement in any way resonated with him, Charlie certainly didn't show it. His courage instilled me with my own bravery. Combined with the fury I felt toward Holdren, I felt invincible.

"So what is our next course of action?" Maverick wanted to know. He tore his somewhat queasy gaze away from Charlie and directed it at me. All the while, he kept a reassuring hand on Charlie's shoulder.

"I . . ." But what could I say? I had no more idea where Paul was than I did where my dad and Vince were. The thought had crossed my mind that they were all dead, but I my resolve wouldn't let me accept that reality. I still had hope that they were alive. They _had_ to be alive. And I had to be strong. "I . . . I think we need to keep searching for my Dad's symbol on these nearby trees. We can't lose sight of our objective. We came here to find my father, and now we need to find Paul and Vince, too. We can't give up." I sank a little lower against the rock. "First, though, I think we need to rest a small while."

Jesse finally stood, breathing a sigh of relief. "I second that, _querida_. I do not think I have ever run so far and so fast in my entire life. Except maybe that time Mercedes thought I had deleted her soaps from the DVR."

He leaned against the rock, and we all laughed. It was the first time I smiled in awhile.

Suddenly, the sound of grinding stone filled our ears, and without warning, the stone wall behind me had disappeared, and I flailed my arms wildly, trying to regain my balance. Having failed, I fell backwards into a darkened enclosure, landing on my arm painfully.

Once I regained my balance, I sat up. My eyes were greeted by Jack, Jesse, and Maverick peering in at me, flashlights at the ready. I struggled to stand on my feet again, all the while quipping, "DeSilva, I swear, if you triggered this stone to open, and if my arm is even remotely _fractured_, I'll—"

"Suze," Jack said in a daze, his mouth slightly ajar, his flashlight pointed at the wall beside me. "Shut up."

I attempted to brush any extra debris off my clothing in a huff. "Dude, I get that you're still pissed at me because of your brother, but _rude_, much?"

"Look."

I turned my gaze to where Jack had the flashlight pointed, and my own jaw dropped. On the wall, glistening in red, was Dad's symbol—the snake swallowing its tail. There was also writing. It read:

_HELP ME!_

_P.S._

My blood ran cold.

. . . Dad?

* * *

**TG/N: **So I am officially one of the crappiest updaters ever. I promised that I would update exactly one year and a month ago, but it never came to fruition. I would be lying if I said this could all be attributed to writer's block (after all, about half of this was written in time for my one year update time), since much of it can be attributed to college work, actual work, video gaming, and various other distractions (*cough*Hulu*cough*). In any case, I have nothing to say to those of you that have stuck with this except thank you SOOOOO much, and the end is in sight! As in, two chapters and an epilogue, in sight! Lord willing, it won't be a full YEAR until I update again, but I promise you that I will stick with this story and finish it out. I dedicate this chapter to both **The Obsessive Book-aholic** and **I want to be Jesse's girl**, both of whom harassed me in the best/most loving way possible to update this story. I can't apologize enough for the wait, but thank you for your support and encouragement! It with readers like you in mind that I will finish this work of love.

I love all of you sooooo much!

The General


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